The World I Have Known (Is Lost In Shadow)
by Spamberguesa
Summary: Everything has its consequences. Thranduil did not think this through.
1. Consequences

This is an authorized sequel to trulyunruly's _The Same Night Sky_ on AO3: archiveofourown dot org /works/3946570. It's a fantastic fic that ideally really ought to be read first, but the Cliff Notes version is that Thranduil seduced Tauriel because she reminded him of his wife, then had an internal freakout the next morning and kicked her to the curb. (Seriously, though, go read it. It's amazing.)

Like everything else I write, this is ballooning into something much longer than I had originally anticipated. I'm hoping it won't wind up _entirely_ angsty, but you never know. (It's funny; I love these two, yet I've tortured them both in almost every fic I've written them into.)

* * *

Unsurprisingly, things change.

No longer does Tauriel seek out Thranduil's company – she actively avoids him, save for her weekly reports. She is never anything but deferential, but he watches the hurt in her eyes turn to hatred, a loathing so intense that he half wonders why she does not abandon her post and leave the Woodland Realm. But no – her sense of duty, he knows, is stronger than her personal feelings.

What is worse, however, is when that cold hatred shifts to cool indifference, to utter, scarcely-disguised contempt. No matter how heated their arguments become – and some of them are quite heated indeed – her gaze always remains detached, without even a modicum of respect. The only reason he has never taken her to task over it is because he knows he deserves it. What he did was unforgivable, and even he knows it.

They continue like this for the next twenty years, and she spends ever more time out in the forest, hunting the spiders and evading him. She starts remaining out there for days or even weeks upon end, sending her lieutenant to report to him, so that she need not even look upon his face.

Her coolness twists like a knife in his gut, because part of him – a stupid, irrational, impossible part – has hoped she would return, that he could try to explain, should he somehow manage to find the words. Tauriel has ever been stubborn, however; he could give her a Silmaril and still she would never forgive him.

The situation grows ever less endurable, but things come to a head when the Dwarves are captured, when she meets Thorin Oakenshield's youngest nephew.

After decades, she smiles again – truly smiles, while the wall of ice that encases her heart cracks visibly. She'd smiled at Thranduil like that, once, though there had been an innocence to it that was absent now. The knife in his gut twists deeper, because he knows he has no right to be jealous, yet jealous he is, shockingly so. He wants her back – wants her smile, that simple affection in her eyes, but that opportunity has long been lost.

He does not know what he will do about the situation, but the matter is soon taken out of his hands: the Dwarves escape, and Tauriel follows. She must know that doing so will result in her banishment – she intends to leave and never return. She is lost to him now in body as she has been in spirit since that terrible morning, and he curses himself for the very worst kind of fool. He is _not_ better off alone, does not _want_ to be alone, but the only one he would have with him can scarcely stand the sight of him, and has finally left him entirely. And he has none to blame but himself.

When word comes of the dragon's death, he knows he must march upon Erebor. Perhaps retrieving his wife's jewels will ease the ache in his heart, though he doubts it. Still, he must try. He gives word that Tauriel is banished, though he does not know why. She would never return anyway. She will stay with her Dwarf, if Oakenshield allows it; if not, the pair will likely strike out to make a new home elsewhere.

His heart is ice when he leads his host to Erebor, but it nearly fails when he learns that Legolas and Tauriel had have gone to Angmar. He wants to follow them, to drag them both back by the hair if necessary, but he cannot – he is king, and he had duties that cannot be shirked.

But when Mithrandir is right – when battle truly does find them – he wants to. He wants to retreat to his halls and never leave again, but he cannot – not until he knows the fate of his son, and the elleth that he has realized, far too late, that he loves.

He takes his rage and pain and fear out on the orcs, slaughtering them with greater savagery than is his wont, until he sees Legolas in the fray – Legolas is safe, so Tauriel must be as well. They can leave now, before any more Elvish blood is spilled. Or so he thinks.

Tauriel must be mad, to block his path armed only with her bow – her bow, which is aimed not at his chest, but his head. This is not grandstanding, not an idle threat; he knows, in this moment, that she is willing to kill him. And that _hurts_ , hurts so much that he can do nothing save lash out at her.

"There is no love in you," she spits, her green eyes like poison, and oh, how wrong she is. She is wrong, and yet he has never given her any cause to believe otherwise.

The betrayal in her eyes when he snaps her bow only cuts him deeper, but worse, so very much worse, is the fact that there is no surprise. Still, he cannot stop himself. "Are you willing to die for it?" he demands, the tip of his sword rested at the hollow of her throat, and her eyes, so filled with hate and rage and grief, say, _yes._

The sight shakes him; he cannot kill her then, even had Legolas not intervened. The rage in his son's face is almost more than he can bear – something breaks in him then, something he had not known was there until it shattered.

They leave him – Tauriel to find her Dwarf, and Legolas in open disgust. He finally has what he so mistakenly thought he wanted. He is alone, alone with so many years of regret.

He must find them – he cannot let this stand, not without at least trying. Tauriel will be with her Dwarf, and Legolas will no doubt be near.

He is near, and the open mingling of grief and contempt in his expression is almost more than Thranduil can bear. It is no surprise that he will not return to the Woodland Realm; if he makes for the north, and finds the son of Arathorn, perhaps some good can come of this.

That leaves only Tauriel – Tauriel, whose anguish nearly shatters him. He understands her grief all too well, and so knows there is little comfort he can give. All he can do is tell her that he was wrong, that her love _was_ real, no matter how brief, and stay with her while the Dwarves collect Kili's body.

She ignores him, staring only at her lost love, until he is borne out of her sight. Then her eyes flick to the edge of the cliff, and dread grips him.

" _No_ ," he says, seizing her arm before she can take more than a single step toward it.

"Get your hands off me," she snarls, shoving at him, but he does not release her. Her eyes are wide and wild, twin wells of fathomless misery, yet rage still burns within them.

"This is not the answer, Tauriel," he says, shocked at the desperation in his voice. It feels as though crystals of ice have settled in his throat, slicing razor-fine.

"It is faster and easier than fading," she retorts. "I have _nothing_ , Thranduil. Now let. _Go_."

It is the first time she has called him by name since that morning, and it takes him a moment to realize why: she has taken her banishment to heart. In her eyes, he is no longer her lord. Perhaps he has not truly been in years.

For once in his life, he has no idea what to say. He wants her to come with him, wants to erase the last twenty years, but Time and Elven memories do not work that way.

"How I have failed you, Tauriel," he says at last, still not releasing her. She is trembling with exhaustion, he can feel it in her arm, but he knows her – she will not stop until she falls.

"Yes," she agrees flatly, "you have. Now let me go. I will sail, if my jumping offends you so."

It is better than suicide, and yet….

And yet. He cannot bear the sight of her pain, the level of heartbreak in her eyes, the bright, sharp shattering of her being.

"Come back with me," he finds himself saying. "I would fail you no longer."

Now she _does_ manage to jerk away from him, staggering over the icy stone. "How _dare_ you?" she hisses, her voice breaking. "I do not care if you are king, Thranduil – you have no right to use anyone as you did me. I owe you nothing, and certainly not forgiveness. And you can never repay what you owe _me_." She storms past him, though at least she makes for the door rather than the cliff's edge.

"Tauriel…" he calls, but she does not look back.

He should follow her, he knows. He does not trust her not to harm herself, but the rage and grief and hurt and _hate_ in her eyes will not allow it. Still she hates him, but he can see the weariness in her very fëa. She is tired, has been growing tired for years, and this has been the last straw.

So he stands, wreathed in despair, knowing the deaths of his people are his fault, caused by his greed. He stares at the blood left by Oakenshield's nephew without really seeing it, until a piercing, terrible scream rends the frigid air.

 _That_ startles him, dread gripping him anew. That was a cry of shock, not of grief, and he knows, _knows_ he should not have left Tauriel on her own. He races through the maze of corridors, some slippery with blood both red and black, halting when he spots a cliff beyond a yawning, empty doorway.

He does not want to look over the edge, but he has to, and what he finds wounds, but does not surprise, him. Tauriel's broken body lies so very far below, surrounded by a crowd of Elves and Edain and Dwarves.

Thranduil cannot leave her thus, though his knees are half ready to give out beneath him. Shockingly bright blood pools around her head, creeping through the snow, soaking her hair. He hurries down, down steps that seem endless, shoving the onlookers – including the new King Dain – away.

"Tauriel," he whispers, kneeling beside her and pressing two fingers to her throat, feeling for her pulse. "Tauriel, you cannot leave. You cannot follow him."

A pulse is there, but it is thready and weak. He cannot know yet what damage has been done to her body, but at least she is alive, however battered and bloody and mired in grief, even in unconsciousness. "Tauriel, you must stay," he says, touching her face, willing her unseeing eyes to look at him, but he knows she would not, even were she capable.

"She is leaving," Dain says, with a startling amount of compassion. "I know that look, as do you, I'm sure. Let her go."

" _No_ ," Thranduil snarls, gathering her into his arms. "I will not lose her, too." Except that he already _has_ lost her – lost her twenty years ago, when he drove her away with such agonizingly efficient cruelty. "You cannot leave, Tauriel," he whispers in Sindarin. "I was wrong, I was so wrong, and even if you never forgive me, I cannot bear for you to die. There is something for you here, Tauriel – something, _anything_ , but you cannot go to Mandos. Not yet, not like this."

* * *

Well, this is not a thing Dain would ever have thought he'd see. He – and every other Dwarf – has always thought Thranduil heartless, but there is nothing heartless about him now. Never has Dain seen such panic and desperation – this Elf lass, who Kili had loved, and who had evidently loved him in return, also evidently means a great deal to Thranduil as well. Whatever the story is there, it is no doubt worth hearing – though Dain doubts it is a pleasant one.

Thranduil lifts her, as carefully as if she is made of spun glass, bearing her toward the Elven healers' tents. Dain could tell him it is pointless – those who want to die always find a way – but even to the Elvenking he cannot be so cruel. Not when those unsettlingly pale eyes are so very stricken – he's taken a wound to the heart, has Thranduil, and it may well prove a fatal one. Strangely, Dain can take no satisfaction in it. Death in battle is one thing; death by despair is something he can wish on very few people, and not even Thranduil is one of them. He genuinely hadn't though the Elvenking capable of such anguish, and witnessing it is one of the more unnerving things he has ever seen in his life.

* * *

 _Do not die do not die do not die_. It is a mantra, repeated in Thranduil's head until it is almost incomprehensible. Tauriel's fëa is connected by a very few tenuous threads, its light dimming by the moment, and he has no idea what to do. She is right; she has nothing to hold her here. Her love is dead, her best friend gone, and she hates him. She has no reason to stay, but he is too selfish to let her go. Always he has been too selfish, when it comes to her.

"You cannot die, Tauriel," he whispers, though he doubts she can hear him. "I will help you sail, if that is truly your wish, but Mandos cannot have you." Though of her leaving is nearly enough to break him, because though she hates him, though she has avoided him for the last twenty years, always he has known she was _there_ , feeling her presence even when he cannot see her.

The healers' tents are unfortunately crowded, and reek of blood, the coppery scent nauseating. Somehow, the sweet aroma of crushed athelas only makes it worse.

There is a single empty cot, though, and he deposits her on it, as gently as he can. The blood from the wound at her head has smeared his armor, soaking into the fabric of the tunic beneath it, the red terribly bright. He grabs the arm of a passing healer, Ríniel, yanking her to a halt.

"Help her," he orders, but there is desperation in his tone – desperation, and soul-crushing guilt. Tauriel is pale, so pale, her face as white as the skiff of snow outside, her eyes closed now.

The healer's dark eyes widen when she takes in Tauriel's myriad contusions, the blood that had soaked her tangled hair. "My lord, what _happened_?" she asks, reaching for Tauriel's left wrist.

"She jumped," he says brokenly. "She leapt off the top of Ravenhill."

Ríniel's eyes widen yet further. Fading is unfortunately not uncommon, but an Elf taking their own life is vanishingly rare, and only done out of complete and total despair.

Someone must have overheard him, for a whisper travels through the tent, even as Ríniel crushes athelas into a bowl of hot water, her hands unsteady. Tauriel has been regarded as a traitor, but now some, it seems, some wonder why she had done it in the first place.

"Perhaps she sought death by the King's hand," someone behind him murmurs, between wet, racking coughs.

" _Why?_ " someone else whispers. "That is not like her at all." Faelon, that is his name – he has been a guard for some three hundred years, one of Tauriel's favorites.

" _She_ has not been like her – not for the last two decades. I do not know what happened to her, but she grew…cold. Surely you noticed."

"Of course I did, but I would never have thought she would try to take her own life. I knew she was cold, but I did not think her so… _broken_."

Thranduil shuts his eyes, and tries to shut out their words. _He_ knows full well why she is broken, and it is a secret he can never confide in anyone.

No, perhaps he can – perhaps he _has_ to. She will never accept his aid, but he can send her to Galadriel. The Lady of Lórien will judge him harshly, but she will aid Tauriel. If anyone still upon this shore can, it is the White Lady.

"Stay, Tauriel," he says, brushing the blood-sticky hair back from her brow. "Stay, and I will take you to Lothlórien, and you need never think on me or the Woodland Realm again."

He can _feel_ Ríniel's startled look, and knows that would only feed the whispers, but he does not care. He has wronged Tauriel, completely and utterly, and he will not let the potential for ugly rumor keep him from making whatever reparation he can. Really, he ought to throw _himself_ off Ravenhill, because he cannot deny he loves this elleth, and he has destroyed her.

 _Come with me_ , he thinks, he wishes, he dares to hope, even as he knows it will never be. Knowledge of her hatred has cut him every single time he's seen her since that accursed morning, and her indifference has been worse, but some deluded part of him has always hoped she would one day forgive him, that she would someday look at him as she once did, before he was such a fool. He has always known it is vain hope, but it has nevertheless been there.

But all he can do is sit, Tauriel's cold hand in his, watching her face grow ever paler even as Ríniel works over her. Perhaps Dain is right – she is leaving. Even when the bleeding stops, her fëa dims.

She would not welcome his intrusion into her mind – not if she were to know that it was him. He does not have Galadriel's precision, and nowhere near her strength, but all older Elves have some mental abilities. He dares not speak to Tauriel, dares not let her hear his voice, aloud or within her mind, but he sends her love, carefully nameless and formless. Were she awake, she would scorn it and him, but perhaps, in her unconsciousness, it may anchor her. Knowing that she is not entirely alone may tether her fëa more strongly.

Thranduil knows he cannot have her, but neither can Mandos. The only one he will give Tauriel to is Tauriel herself, because no one else deserves her.

* * *

 _Tauriel dreams._

 _She is still dimly aware of pain, both in her heart and in her body, but it is very dim – merely an echo, a memory. Soon it will flicker out entirely, and she will pass into Mandos' care. He is said to have great ability to heal both mind and fëa; perhaps he can undo the tangle of hurt and contempt and anger that has lurked in her heart these last twenty years._

 _Perhaps he can make her forget._

 _Not Kili – never Kili. Being parted from him will always hurt, but it is a clean pain, and she could never wish to forget their love, however brief it was. And someday, the world will end. Someday, they may well be reunited. She has something to hope for, even if it does not lie upon this shore._

 _That thought brings her peace, and warmth, and a sense of love without source or shape. She hurts, but the worst pain, the one that has gnawed at her for two decades, is absent. Maybe, finally, she can truly rest._

* * *

Tauriel sleeps the entire way home, borne, like so many others, on a litter, but she breathes. Thranduil makes sure of that. Though he travels up and down the line of wounded, always he returns to her side, and does not care that the whispers spread.

Her distaste for him is no secret among the Guard, and he knows it, for he has kept his ear to the ground there. He has never heard of her speaking against him, save to call him ill-tempered (which a great many have, and doubtless will in future), but her aversion is nevertheless common knowledge. His hovering at her side now surely looks incredibly peculiar, and will rouse his soldiers' curiosity even through their grief, but he cannot bring himself to care.

One they have returned to the halls, he is forced to leave her, for like it or not, he has duties to attend to. He must arrange care for the families of the fallen, and the funeral ceremonies. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, for their deaths are his fault, the price of his greed. They fought and died not in defense of their land, not to stem the tide of evil, but for a box of gems with meaning to him alone.

How can he ever face Anameleth now, after all he has done? He has wasted his people's lives, he has destroyed Tauriel out of deliberate cruelty, he has driven their son away…she will never forgive him, and nor should she. His life is and forever will be in ruin, and he has none to blame but himself.

Except that he knows, deep in his heart, that he will never get the chance to face her. After the terrible way in which she died, even Mandos could never fully heal her; she is lost to him until the end of the world, her battered fëa in the care of death's keeper. Perhaps, by then, he will be worthy of her forgiveness – but he doubts it.

Tauriel will never forgive him, either, and the pain of that is sharper and more immediate. But her, at least, he can aid – he can heal her in body, and take her to Galadriel, who can heal her in mind and fëa. In Lothlórien she can rest, and then be passed to Elrond, who will help her to the Grey Havens.

And then she will be gone, forever out of his sight and his reach, and he will be alone. How could he ever have been stupid enough to think he is better off that way? His heart is stone, yet still it trembles – the world he has known is lost in shadow, and though its slip into darkness has not wholly been his own doing, he has certainly helped it along its way.

When night falls, he goes to Tauriel. Though Eldar sleep far less often than Edain, few things weary them so much as grief; as a result, there are none about to observe him.

Her color is better, at least, no longer a deathly pallor, but she lies with her eyes closed, and that is almost too much to bear. It is rare that Eldar close their eyes outside of death, and her breathing is so slow and so soft that he rests his fingers over her pulse, reassuring himself that her heart still beats. Someone has brushed her hair, and it lies across her pillow like a river of flame – such hair is proof of a heritage none would want, and so he has never told her of it. At least he has spared her that, if nothing else.

He does not know what she dreams, and will not violate the sanctity of her mind to find out. Instead he takes her hand, her fingers chilly, and gives her a sense of warmth, and safety, and the love he was too much of a fool to admit he feels, even to himself. He has taken far too much from her, but this he can give, silent and unseen. She will wake to pain both spiritual and physical, but for now she rests, in all the comfort he can give her. Tauriel must know that she is loved, even if she can never know by whom.

Her hand is still too cold, and so small compared to his own. She herself is small by the standards of the Eldar, yet it has never hindered her. Thranduil wants to wrap her in his robes, in his arms, to keep her safe from the peril and pain of the world, but she would never let him. Not now.

"Rest well, Tauriel," he says quietly, brushing the errant strands of fiery hair back from her brow. "I swear you will not linger thus. You will go to Valinor, to your family. You will heal – you will be as you should be, as you _would_ be, but for my foolishness. I am not better off alone, Tauriel; I knew it that morning, and I know it now, and I am sorry I hurt you so. The fault was mine, and yet it was you who suffered for it. I…"

He falls silent, pressing the back of her hand to his brow. He thinks of the elleth she was before, bright and curious and _alive_ , her fëa filled with light, her eyes with an innocence whose destruction he has caused.

"I wish you would stay," he says, the words little more than a whisper. "I wish I could somehow earn your forgiveness. I wish I had…" It is pointless to wish, he knows, and yet he cannot help it. He cannot tell her he loves her, not even when she cannot hear him; the words stick in his throat. Instead he sends it to her, from his mind to hers, and the furrow between her brows eases. This he can do for her, and will do, until she is well enough to travel. He cannot comfort her while she is awake, but when she wanders in dreams, he can give her all she would not consciously accept from him. It is nowhere near enough, but nothing would be.

* * *

When Tauriel wakes, she is strangely calm.

If she dreamed, she doesn't remember it, but the pain of all she has lost is not the sharp, glinting thing she would have expected. But then, she can tell she has been fed a great deal of poppy; her head feels floaty, and the bed beneath her seems to rock a little.

She is alive. Why? She is alive, and she is _home_ – Eru knows she has spent more than enough time in the healing wards over the centuries. Such a fall should easily have killed her, yet here she is, warm and clean and well-tended, and totally, infuriatingly _alive._

That fact makes her vaguely, muzzily angry. With all their wounded, the hundreds who would have surely been in need of care, _why_ would someone go to all the effort of saving one who obviously wished to die? She is a traitor, and she'd wear the title proudly if asked, for the king she betrayed had not deserved her loyalty in twenty years.

Perhaps Legolas decided to stay after all. He would strive to save her, traitor or no, but she will not thank him for it. Eldar are difficult to kill, but even within the healing wards, there are numerous things that can be repurposed as weapons, should one feel the need. Finding one will be easy enough.

When she tries to sit, however, her vision blurs, and she nearly cannot manage it. She finds that she is desperately thirsty, and wonders just how long she has been asleep. Not that it matters.

Her room is small, as are most in the healings wards – it holds a bed and a nightstand, and a long, narrow, polished counter of dark oak, upon which a healer would array whatever tools she needed. It's cozy, and warm, smelling faintly of bittersweet yarrow, and she has a fleeting moment of guilt, for whoever finds her will be in for a nasty shock.

The only breakable thing in the entire room is the large green lamp on the end-table, and her shaking hands wrap it in a sheet before she smashes it onto the floor, so as to muffle the noise. There's something dimly satisfying in the muted shatter, in the feel of it splintering apart beneath her hands. It is nice, for once, to be the one doing the breaking, not the one being broken. The stinging scent of lamp-oil joins that of the yarrow, strangely pleasant, though it leaves a bitter, astringent taste at the back of her throat.

Without the lamp, the only light in the room comes from the crack beneath the closed door, but it is enough. Her trembling fingers unfold the sheet, seeking the largest piece of glass: it is sharp, so sharp that just touching it cuts her left index finger. It will open her veins as effectively as any of her knives, and it will be mere minutes before she stands before Mandos. Thanks to the poppy, it will not even hurt very much.

She doesn't hesitate when she presses the glass to her wrist, but she does not get the chance to do more than that. Ríniel, curse her, chooses that moment to open the door, and Tauriel all but drops the glass in shock. The poppy has slowed her reflexes, too; the golden-haired healer snatches the shard from her hands before she can do anything more than jam it down into her wrist. It will not be enough, not if the damned healer is determined to save her, but the sight and feel and scent of the blood that wells up from the wound calms her, even as she aims a drunken kick at Ríniel. She will not be saved this time – she doesn't care what she has to do, or to whom.

" _Tauriel_ ," Ríniel gasps, flinging the glass away. It has cut her fingers, too, badly enough that she has to wrap them in the green fabric of her skirt. "Tauriel, what are you _doing_?"

That is, she thinks, an incredibly stupid question.

"Finishing what I started," she says flatly, her voice hoarse from disuse, even as she paws through the sheet in search of another useful shard. The fabric is soaked with lamp-oil, and it burns where it touches the cuts on her hand

Her attempt at retrieving it lands her on the floor, and agony explodes through her head, shockingly intense, washing her vision grey. It lights a fire in her ribs and left shoulder, so intense that she screams before she can help it.

Ríniel leaps forward, trying to grab her, to restrain her, but Tauriel is having none of it. Injured she might be, but she is a warrior, and Ríniel is not, and she is not at all afraid to hurt the healer. If she has her way, she will soon be too dead to imprison, so it does not matter who she hurts, or how badly.

Kicking, however, is rather difficult in her soft ward-shift, the skirt much longer than her customary tunics, and her bare feet aren't helping. Still, she takes Ríniel down with a well-placed elbow to the kidney, even as the pain from all her myriad wounds nearly blacks her out. Hot, coppery blood smears along her arm, staining the shift, and she falls again when she staggers for the door, hunting her impromptu weapon. Thanks to the poppy, her legs feel heavy and useless, her normal dexterity eroded away, leaving her able only to grope.

It cuts her fingers when they close around it, but she lets out a triumphant snarl. The blood it draws makes her grip slippery, but it will work.

Ríniel grabs her ankle before she can bear down with it, yanking her knees out from under her. She doesn't lose the shard, however, because it impales her palm when her hand hits the floor. She can scarcely feel the pain, not when everything else hurts so much, but the blood feels hot and alien.

Snarling again, Tauriel rolls, her free foot making solid contact with Ríniel's jaw. That breaks the healer's grip, and Tauriel staggers to her feet, out of reach, wrenching the glass from her palm. Her heart thunders in her ears as her lungs fight for breath it seems they cannot properly draw, her chest burning as though she has run the length of the forest.

Her reprieve, however, is short-lived. Others have come running, no doubt drawn by her screams – all healers, not warriors.

Well. If they try to stop her, they will regret it.

* * *

Thranduil is brooding over funerary preparations when Feren, pale and disturbed, burst into his study.

"My lord, Tauriel has woken," he says, a trifle breathlessly. "Ríniel caught her trying to take her life again."

Thranduil feels the blood drain from his face, dread gripping his heart like an iron vice. "And?" he asks, rising.

Feren winces. "She attacked Ríniel. And Sadronniel. And Iólel."

The dread's grip intensifies, dropping like lead into the pit of his stomach. He is out of the door in an instant, all but running to the healing wards. Even injured, the healers stand little chance against her, unless she faints from exertion. He should have anticipated this, should have realized she would be just as suicidal upon waking as she was when she jumped.

What he finds in the healing wards is utter mayhem. Ríniel and Sadronniel both lie unconscious in the corridor, which is smeared and splattered with a worrying amount of blood. Iólel, her face white with pain, grips her left arm, which is bent at a truly unnatural angle.

"She went that way, my lord," she grits out, jerking her head down the hallway.

Given the noise issuing from that direction, that much is evident – startled cries, smashing glass, and a distinctly masculine grunt of pain. Thranduil races down the corridor, uncertain he wants to know what is at the end of this, and what he finds is this:

Tauriel has reached the staging-room, the first area for the most dire of emergencies, and felled three more healers and two injured guards. The shattering glass seems to have come from the bottle she smashed over Belegorn's head; he has pieces of it in his tawny hair, and blood drips down his temple as he lies slumped on the floor.

Tauriel herself is covered in it, her shift dyed in uneven patches of red and rust. Her face is flushed and feverish, her hair a fiery tangle, and while she might wish to die, her green eyes burn with life and determination.

She just might be the loveliest thing he has ever seen.

But she is bleeding, too – her pale arms smeared with gore, and he does not know how much of it is hers. She has to be stopped, before she actually succeeds at her goal, but in truth, he isn't sure _how_.

Her eyes, her molten, forest eyes, find him, and she freezes. Hatred fills them, so hot and so sharp it physically hurts, twisting deep in his gut.

" _You_ ," she hisses. "This is your fault, isn't it?" Her voice is so hoarse that it all but gives out halfway through the sentence. "You've taken almost everything from me, _Thranduil_ – must you really take away my death as well?"

Not until Ravenhill has her loathing ever been so overt, and even now it startles him. Startles, and _hurts_ , and for once his pain must be visible, for Tauriel smiles, slow and cruel, spitting blood from a split lip.

" _Good_ ," she says flatly. "Perhaps you will have some shadow of understanding. Now. Go. _Away_."

He does not move, and cannot speak, and her eyes narrow. "You are not my king," she snarls, stalking toward him, but her steps are uneven and unsteady, "and this is not my home, and you have no say _at all_ in what I do with my life. Now _get out of my way_."

She shoves him, hard, leaving bloody handprints on his silver robe, and he lets her – but he does not leave her path. He can't, not when she is so very close.

"Tauriel, no," he says, as gently as he can, but he is careful not to touch her.

The sound of his voice seems to enrage her, and before he can blink, she launches herself at him, and he finds her hands around his throat, their grip surprisingly strong. The force of it is enough to send him staggering back against the wall, if only for a moment, cracking his head hard on the stone. His instinct is to grab her, to fling her away, but still he forces himself not to touch her. He doesn't know _what_ she'll do if he does, and it isn't as though she can truly hurt him. Not in the state she's in now.

"Will _this_ make you kill me?" she demands, her fingers digging into his windpipe, as though she means to tear it from his throat. Perhaps she does.

Perhaps he should let her.

 _No_ , he thinks, trying to ignore the stinging pain of her nails as he grabs her wrists, as carefully as he can. His lungs are already burning, but he doesn't want to hurt her, for all she's hurting _him_ – she's drawn blood, he knows it, feels the burning trails she's scored across his skin – but she is so injured already that it cannot be avoided.

Her grip does not want to break, but of course it does under pressure. He can see her grit her teeth, smeared dark with blood, against the pain, but she doesn't cry out – instead she kicks his knee, hard enough that he hears something click. That will hurt later, once he has enough time to feel pain. He cannot afford it right now.

Thranduil can't help but cough, as soon as the pressure has left his neck, his throat on raw fire. He knows she will only hurt herself attacking him if he does not let her go, but he doesn't want to. He never wants to – not to Galadriel, not to Valinor, and certainly not to Mandos.

In the end, he doesn't need to. It is a miracle she has retained consciousness this long, and finally, it gives up, leaving her limp and still.

He kneels, very carefully, still coughing, feeling a hot trickle of blood on his throat. Even in sleep, Tauriel wears an expression of abject misery, and Thranduil cradles her in his arms as he lays a hand on her face, sending her warmth, and love, and a peace he does not feel.

What is he to do now? This will only repeat itself each time she wakes, unless he finds some way to stop it.

And he has no idea how. But something must be done.

He cannot allow this to happen again.

* * *

Because, you know, I needed yet another multi-chapter fic going. Apparently I'm a masochist. The line "[his] heart is stone, and still it trembles" is actually from Javert's Soliloquy in Les Miserables. I was listening to the soundtrack yesterday, and I thought it fit. (That's where the title of the fic came from, too, because I am shit at coming up with titles for things.)


	2. Healing

In which Tauriel heals, Thranduil stews, and someone else gets involved.

* * *

She won't eat.

The next time Tauriel wakes, she does not reach for the lamp, nor does she attack the guard – Menelwen – who sits at her bedside. She is not sure how long she's gone without food already, but it is enough to have weakened her, so she simply carries on starving herself, ignoring all who come into her room. The only thing she will consume are the pain cordials, in the hope that enough of them will poison her.

She does wonder what everyone else is making of this – the traitor who threatened the King, brought back and healed after trying to take her own life. She doubts Thranduil has offered any explanations, because he has no consideration for anyone else's feelings, not even his son's.

He visits her sometimes, saying nothing, only watching her with a sorrow that makes her want to kill him. Tauriel wishes he would drown in it, and trouble her no more.

He's not here now, however. It is Huoriel who sits at her bedside, chattering away and brushing her long hair. Tauriel has always liked Huoriel – the elleth is one of her best lieutenants, and she at least doesn't seem to care that Tauriel has been branded a traitor.

"We miss you, Captain," she says, drawing the brush so very carefully through Tauriel's limp hair. She is tall for an elleth, her own hair brown as freshly-turned earth, her eyes hazel flecked with green. "Sadronniel is capable, but she is not you." She's careful not to mention the casualties – she never speaks of anything negative, actually.

Tauriel doesn't mind. Her bed is warm and comfortable, her sheets smelling of dried lavender, and there is something vaguely pleasant about having her hair brushed. None of it is worth protesting over – not that she'd respond even if it was. She won't give anyone the satisfaction, not even kind Huoriel, who simply doesn't understand. Who will never understand, because Tauriel will never admit to anyone that she was ever naïve enough to let herself be seduced, and to believe it could actually mean something.

She can't call herself stupid, because at the time Thranduil had given her no indication that he was merely using her. He is an accomplished liar, she'll give him that – she'd thought the affection in his pale eyes was real. Oh, she'd known that nothing official could ever have come of it, not with the difference in their stations, but she had thought his regard for her genuine. That her fondness was returned. That he could lie so convincingly has made her distrust as well as hate him ever since.

 _Kili, why did you have to die? Why did I have to live?_ She still doesn't know why everyone is so desperate to save her, not when she so very obviously wants to die. Surely _someone_ out there is saying, _let the traitor finish what she started_. Why are none listening?

Tauriel doesn't know, and she is too weary to think more on it now. Sleep claims her, and, as always, she hopes she will wake to the care of Mandos.

* * *

Iólel, her left arm in a sling, gives Thranduil a look of utter helplessness, her dark eyes grave. "My lord, we cannot force her to eat," she says. "She would fight us if we tried, and even in her state – well, I might not be the only one to come away with a broken arm."

Thranduil paces the room, breathing the scent of yarrow and feverfew. "She accepts pain cordials, does she not?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Add broth. It is not enough, but it is better than nothing, and it will perhaps stimulate her appetite."

"We will try, my lord," Iólel says, with a sigh. He knows that she – and everyone – wonder why he is so bent on saving the life of an elleth who so very publicly threatened to kill him, but none have dared ask, and his mood has been so foul that he doubts anyone will. They had better not.

He leaves Iólel, and shoo's Huoriel out of Tauriel's room. Tauriel, as usual, ignores everything, but when she sees him, she turns her head away. She hasn't screamed at him since the first day she woke – she has said nothing at all, and refuses to look at him.

It twists at the dull pain that always lingers in his heart, and her appearance only makes it worse. She's downright skeletal, her cheekbones sharp as knives, eyes sunken and ringed in shadow. There is nothing of the fiery elleth he loves – she is purposefully snuffing her own light, and he is helpless to stop it.

So far, he has not dared speak to her – not after what happened the last time she heard his voice. He doesn't know what he hopes to accomplish by these visits, but he finds he cannot stay away. When she sleeps, he can comfort her, but when she is awake? He does not know. The only thing he is sure of is that he has to try.

He wonders when she will speak to him. He knows her – sooner or later her temper will fray, and she'll give out at him, or so he hopes. If she is past all capacity for anger, she is truly lost.

She has been silent for so long that when she does speak, it takes him entirely by surprise. "Why will you not let me die?" she asks, her voice sandpaper-rough from disuse.

Thranduil thinks very carefully before he answers. He cannot tell her it is because he can't bear to – that would only enrage her. "Because the world would be a darker place without you in it," he says. "I know you will not wish to stay, Tauriel, but give your light to Lothlórien, or Imladris. Galadriel would love you, as would Elrond." _As do I_ , he thinks, but he knows far better than to say it.

"I want neither of them," she says flatly. "What I want is lost to me, but I will take Mandos in his place. I will no longer deal with the cruelty of this world."

There is nothing pointed in her words, yet he flinches anyway.

"I wanted to leave, before," she says, just as flatly, "but I would not let you win."

Thranduil understands part of that, and it sends guilt pricking through him, but mostly he is confused. "What do you mean, win?" he asks, uncertain he wants to know the answer.

Still Tauriel won't look at him. "You wanted to drive me away," she says. "To forget me. I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of driving me out of my home, no matter how much I wanted to leave, but I find I no longer care."

She couldn't have hurt him more if she'd stabbed him in the chest. The pain of it actually drives the breath from his lungs – was that what she truly thought? "Tauriel –"

"Not a word, Thranduil. I stopped believing your lies twenty years ago." She turns on her side, fully away from him, her shoulders hunched. "Now go away. You cannot be stupid enough to think I would ever actually _want_ you here."

He wants to protest – wants to say so many things, but all the words in his mind refuse to string together into coherent sentences. But even if they could, what _can_ he say? He remembers every single cruel word he spoke to her that morning – and how horribly ironic, that it is them, the lies, that she believes.

Thranduil knows that the only intelligent thing to do is obey her, but he finds that he simply cannot. "I was guilty," he says, "that morning, and I took it out on you."

"I do not care _what_ you felt that morning," she retorts, "and I do not care what you feel now. The result is the same. Whatever the cause of your guilt, I hope it rots you from the inside out. You tricked me and you used me and you drove me away as though I were some Edain whore, and I wish I had shot you in the head when I had the chance."

Her every word rings of truth – she means them, all of them, and Thranduil bows his head. In that moment he wishes the same. "I did not trick you, Tauriel," he says, not a little brokenly. "What I said the next morning – those were the lies."

"I don't believe you. And even if I did, the result remains the same. Go away, Thranduil. I do not _want_ you." Tauriel curls into a ball, hugging herself, and he knows that this time, he must do as she says. Lingering will accomplish nothing save upset her further.

"I know my apology is worthless, Tauriel," he says, rising, "but I am sorry. I have been sorry ever since you walked out that door."

She curls into an even tighter ball. "Had you actually said something then, I might have listened," she whispers. "You will not trick me again, and if you will not die, you will at least have the grace to allow me my own death."

 _No_ , he thinks, _I will not_. But he has said enough, and learned far _more_ than enough. He leaves in silence, and wonders how long it will take her to carve the rest of his heart away.

* * *

After Thranduil leaves, Tauriel realizes that she has two choices: cry or sleep. As she vowed decades ago to never shed another tear over that liar, she chooses sleep.

 _In her dreams she knows she is with Kili, though she cannot see him – not in Erebor, but in a small village of Dwarves and Edain. There's snow on the ground, and the breeze that bites her cheeks is frigid, but the sun shines fiercely, glittering off the snow like diamonds._

 _The deep clank of a hammer striking an anvil rings out behind her, and she turns to find a smithy – plain and small, but well-built, the entire frontage open to the air. It's filled with tools, none of whose names she knows, and a forge that glows like a red eye. It's Kili who mans it, of course, but beside him is a girl – a young girl, but already nearly his height, with his shaggy dark hair and the telltale pointed ears of the Eldar –_

Tauriel wakes weeping, her cheeks stretched tight and stiff with the salt of her tears. The Valar, she thinks dimly, must truly hate her. Her head feels thick and heavy, and aches behind her stinging eyes, but try though she does, she can't stem the tide of her tears. It is as though the dream burst her carefully-constructed internal dam, and it is not long before she's sobbing, her lungs fighting for air and burning as they fail. It wakes all the pain of her injuries, igniting a fire in her ribs, and why, _why_ will they not simply let her _die_?

She thinks of that girl-child, with her father's hair and mother's ears. _Could_ she and Kili have had children? Eldar and Edain can breed, but to her knowledge, the possibility of an Elf-Dwarf offspring has never come up.

She's never particularly _wanted_ children, but she could easily have wanted Kili's. She'll never get the chance, now.

Her pillowcase is wet, strands of hair sticking to her face, and still she cannot breathe. Perhaps she'll suffocate – her lungs are useless, their struggling in vain. Dark sparkles dance before her eyes, and she presses her face into her damp pillow. If her tears will not smother her, perhaps it will finish the job. Eventually, after what seems an eternity, consciousness deserts her.

 _She dreams again, but not of Kili._

 _Wherever she is, it is unlike anywhere she has seen in life. Before her is a field of wildflowers, a field that slopes down to a river far below. Incongruously, the oaks to her left are in full autumnal splendor, their leaves mingling in every gradation of yellow and orange and red. It's warm, but not overly so, and the sun has barely risen._

 _She turns, and behind her runs a small brook, chuckling quietly to itself. Presiding over it is a massive tree she knows to be a willow, though she's never seen one. Its trailing branches curtain a massive boulder, and on that boulder sits a woman._

 _She isn't Eldar, Tauriel sees, but neither can she be Edain. Though her skin is the color of damp earth, her long hair is golden-red, and her eyes the most vivid green Tauriel has ever seen. More striking, however, is the sheer aura of power that surrounds her – Tauriel hadn't known such power could exist in Middle-Earth._

 _"We are not in Middle-Earth, little one," the woman says, rising. Standing, she has to be at least seven feet tall, garbed in a robe of green that shifts hues with her every movement, like shot silk._

 _"Where are we?" Tauriel asks, though it is all she can do to find her voice. She's in no pain here, but it is difficult to speak to such a creature._

 _"A place of my own creation. The world has been cruel to you, Tauriel, in ways I do not appreciate. Your part in the song is not yet over, but you speak truth when you say that you have nothing."_

 _"What?" Tauriel asks. The only thing she truly wants is Kili, and even Mandos cannot return him to her._

 _"A purpose," the woman says, taking her hand. A jolt like lightning passes through the contact, jagging up Tauriel's arm and all through her, sparking her nerves, but it brings no pain. It's easily the strangest thing she has ever felt, and yet not unpleasant. Her skin tingles with it, as though she's just gone swimming in an icy river and dried herself in the sun. "It has been long, little Tauriel, since I have touched any in Middle-Earth. Rest, and heal, and when you go out into your forest, see what you may do with it. Too long have you been powerless and cold, child, but you need be neither any longer. Heal in your home, and find a new self to be."_

 _"It is not my home," Tauriel says, much though it pains her. "It has not truly been in years."_

 _"Do not let one person drive you from it, little forest daughter. The Greenwood is in your bones. Who says you must linger in the Elvenking's halls? There are those within them who love you, but they will keep. Help yourself, before you give thought to them."_

 _She kisses Tauriel's brow, and then she is gone – and Tauriel wakes._

She feels…different. Her pain lingers, but it's much dulled, and not by poppy. She looks at her right hand, still bandaged, half expecting to see some drastic change. It is still hers, paler than normal, her wrist bony.

The true change is internal. Grief still weighs heavy in her heart, but no longer does it threaten to consume her whole. There is a strange clarity in her mind, a lightness, like a wound drained of poison. She is weak, and she is tired, but something – some nameless, elusive _thing_ – wishes to live. To do as she was told, and go out into the forest.

The woman-creature was right: the Greenwood is in her bones. Tauriel is certain Lothlórien and Imladris are beautiful, but she was born in the Greenwood, even if it has not been green in centuries. It calls to her now, like the sirens of Edain legend, and she actually wants to answer.

She does not, however, want to be seen. Thranduil, she is certain, will not willingly let her leave, lest she harm herself once she is alone. Recovery will take some time, and in that time she must plot her escape. And then – then she will be free.

Thranduil might think nothing of her, might think that she _is_ nothing, but now Tauriel knows better. She always knew better, really, but she truly _feels_ it. She might not know who or what that woman was, but she's been blessed, somehow. With _what_ , she isn't certain, but she'll find out soon enough.

The woman told her to find a new self. Tauriel wants the old one back.

* * *

Huoriel does not know what to make of the change in Tauriel. It's subtle, but nevertheless it is deep, far more than her simply willingness to eat again.

She still doesn't actually _speak_ , but there is something in her eyes, something that has joined the pain and grief. Huoriel wants to call it purpose.

Her eyes themselves seem different, though they have not actually changed. There is something odd about them now – about _her_ , really, odd and alien, in no way Huoriel can hope to define.

She sits now on her bed, eating soup. Her hair, still damp from recent washing, falls around her like liquid fire, coiling on the sheets, trailing over her still-bony arms. Her face remains too sharp, her eyes still sunken, but one thing is for certain: she no longer wishes to die.

Huoriel knows she should tell the King, but she hesitates to. Telling him would surely do him good – the battle and the Prince's departure seem to have frozen him, and this is heartening news – but Tauriel, she is sure, would not appreciate it.

No one knows just what happened, but it's very obvious that Tauriel utterly loathes the King, who apparently, according to those who actually _see_ him, seems to carry a great weight of both pain and guilt. Whatever it was, Huoriel – and most of the Guard – speculate that its roots are some twenty years old. What it could _be_ , she has no idea, and doesn't really want to speculate. And she doesn't dare ask Tauriel.

"The healers say you will soon be able to return to your room," she says, taking the empty bowl.

Surprisingly, Tauriel actually looks at her. "I am not going to my room," she says, her voice still hoarse. "I am leaving, and I need you to help me."

"Why?" Huoriel asks. That thing, that alien _something_ in Tauriel's eyes has strengthened, and it's beyond unsettling.

"Because I do not wish anyone to know until I am gone. There are things I must do, and I don't wish to be followed."

"What things?" There's something almost hypnotic in her green gaze, something that seems to suck at Huoriel's very fëa.

"I do not know yet – only that I must do them. I can't stay here, Huoriel – I've lost too much. Part of me died on Ravenhill, and I cannot heal within these walls."

"Will you ever come back?"

Tauriel is quiet for several moments, her expression thoughtful. "Someday, perhaps. Once I have found what I am looking for."

Huoriel knows she shouldn't help – the King will be furious – but she finds she can't deny Tauriel this request. "Where will you go?"

"Not far, I think. Wherever my feet take me."

Huoriel is going to get demoted for this. She just knows it.

* * *

The healers insist Tauriel is recovering, but Thranduil wouldn't know it. Each time he tries to see her when she is awake, she lies facing away from him, and will not speak.

He wishes she would shout at him again, at least – that she would give him _something_ , but she's done her best to ignore him for the last two decades. She's turned it into an art form by now.

"When you are well, I will have a party escort you to Lothlórien, if you wish," he says, and watches her bony shoulders tense. Still she says nothing, however. "She will know best how to help you."

"I need no help," Tauriel says, though she still won't look at him. "I will go where I wish, when I wish, and with whom. Once I am well, I will decide my own course. Now go away – I am tired."

There is strength in her voice, at least, even if it remains hoarse. "The healers tell me you must begin walking again," he says. "When you wake, walk with me."

She gives an indelicate snort, but otherwise doesn't dignify that with a response.

* * *

In the days that follow, what Thranduil doesn't know – what none but Huoriel know – is that Tauriel _does_ walk. She paces her tiny room, back and forth, regaining her strength in secret.

Her steps are wobbly at first, uncertain, her legs unused to actually working, but each day they grow stronger. And while she paces, she plans.

"Winter is upon us, Tauriel," Huoriel says, watching her pace. "You cannot survive in the forest on your own. There is nothing to _eat_."

"I will go to Beorn." Thranduil, should he prove mad enough to actually look for her, will assume she's gone to Erebor. He would never think to ask the skinchanger. Huoriel doesn't need to know she plans to return to the forest in the spring, either. _That_ she would rather not get around, not yet. "He often takes in lost creatures."

And Tauriel _is_ lost, still – it is only that she finally has a way of trying to find herself again, now. She hadn't realized how very hopeless she had become, but now that she has hope again, she knows. She will mourn, of course, but she does not need to hate.

If only Thranduil wouldn't keep making that hatred so _easy_. Tauriel has no idea why he continues to visit her, but she devoutly wishes he would stop. Each time he does, it sets her back, and she must climb out of the hole of hatred all over again.

Perhaps she will speak to Ríniel. Healers have the right to overrule the King, if it is to the benefit of their patients, and not having to deal with Thranduil would certainly be of great benefit to Tauriel.

She had not realized, until now, just how much power her hatred gives – gave – him over her. For so long, she's wasted energy on him. Her stubborn refusal to let him win has only cost her.

Technically, he's succeeding now, but she's hurt him and she knows it, so he can have his hollow victory. She only pities the next poor guard he tricks and lies to – perhaps, in time, she will have company in the forest, someone else who needs healing. Tauriel has little doubt he'll do it again, once she's gone.

And she's nearly ready. Huoriel has been putting together a pack for her – one more week and she will be free, off into the forest. She only hopes Huoriel will not pay too dearly for aiding her – she's asked the elleth to go with her, multiple times, but always Huoriel refuses. The halls are yet her home, and Tauriel cannot tell her why she should leave.

At least, if she gets banished, she knows where to go. Tauriel ought to patrol the forest regularly, just in case. Perhaps Beorn will have two lost creatures to house for the winter.

* * *

Who visited Tauriel, you ask? None other than Yavanna. _Something_ had to give her some hope. There's no way Thranduil and Tauriel can ever reconcile so long as such a massive power imbalance exists between them. She's got a lot of shit to work through, and she'll never manage it in the halls.

Anonymous Fan: Thank you so much. :) You have no idea how happy it makes me, to hear that. I love putting the two of them into creepy and/or uncomfortable situation, so I love it when it's enjoyed. Thank you for the comment and the kudos. :)


	3. Travel and Thought

In which Tauriel is off to find peace, Thranduil realizes a few things, and change is in the air.

* * *

Sneaking out of the halls is appallingly easy.

The healers, once they knew she was mending, had stopped hovering, and evading them is simple, once she has her own clothes back. Anyone who half-sees her will see an exiting guard and nothing more, for she ties a scarf over her distinctive hair.

Huoriel has stashed he pack in an alcove near the front gates, along with her winter cloak. Tauriel already wears several layers – three pairs of leggings, and a wool tunic between her three lighter ones. The only article of her Guard uniform she brings are her boots, which are warmer and sturdier than any of her personal footwear. The cloak was her mother's, heavy and warm, though the dark green will stand out like a beacon in the snow. She must get as far from the halls as she can before nightfall, lest someone pursue her.

Faelon and Menelwen open the gates for her without question – Huoriel must have spoken with them – and then she is free, in the clean, frigid winter air.

Fortunately, the sky is clear, the dawn pearl-grey. She can't see the sunrise through the trees, but it won't be long before golden shafts pierce the skeletal canopy of the forest. The snow has to be a good two feet deep, unmarred by footprints of any sort, muffling whatever sound there might be in the dead of winter, and Tauriel smiles.

It is a good beginning.

And then she is of, her footsteps light upon the snow, her pack heavy on her back. She has enough food to see her to Beorn's and then some, in case she gets snowbound along her way. This time of year, that's almost a certainty.

The snow crunches and squeaks under her boots, and she marvels at the calm she feels. It's not precisely peace, not yet, but she feels warm in a way that has nothing to do with all her clothing. It has been long, so very long, since she truly felt loved, but that woman, that being, seems to have planted love within her. Though none walk with her, Tauriel knows she's not alone.

It's a nice feeling. She'd like to keep it.

* * *

Not until nightfall does anyone realizes Tauriel is missing.

Huoriel has been bringing her meals, so the healers had not thought to check on her. Evidently no one else did, either.

Thranduil, his heart gripped in a fist of panic and fury, summons the guard in question, who is maddeningly unapologetic. She stands before his throne like a guard ought to, hands folded behind her back, hazel eyes meeting his steadily.

"She wished to leave, my lord," she says. "As far as I am aware, she was not a prisoner. I put together a pack for her, gathered her warmest clothes, and let her."

"You _let_ her," he says flatly, "in her condition."

"She is far more healed in body than the healers know," Huoriel says evenly, though she pales at his tone. "She told me she cannot fully heal within these walls, so I sent her on her way. She will not try to harm herself again."

"She told you so, did she?" Thranduil asks caustically.

"Yes, my lord. In more than mere words. She allowed me to see the change in her, even if she allowed it of no one else."

He finds his nails digging into his palms. "And did she happen to tell you where she was _going_?"

Huoriel hesitates. "To Beorn," she says, "for the winter. After that, she does not know." She pauses. "There is no point sending anyone after her, my lord. She will not return, and few know this forest as well as Tauriel. You likely will not even find her."

Rage spikes through him, and he is tempted to snap this impertinent little elleth's neck. He has to draw a deep breath to calm himself. "You _will_ find her," he says, soft, and not a little deadly, "and you will bring her home, or you may consider yourself banished."

Resignation enters her eyes. "Yes, my lord."

"Good. Now go." He dismisses her with a wave of his hand.

He's known all along that Tauriel would not willingly linger within his halls, but he did not expect her to go haring off into the forest in the dead of winter. The spiders might be dormant, but there are still far too many ways she can get herself killed. If she wants to leave him, she can do it in the spring, with an escort. At least that way he will know where she goes.

 _That is why she left now_ , he thinks, as he rises from his throne and stalks down the dais. _She does not_ want _you to know where she's going._

The thought is unwelcome, and all the more so because he knows it is right. Tauriel would prefer to vanish like a thief in the night, and not give him anything more than he's already taken.

His mood grows ever fouler as he makes for his rooms, and his people scatter out of his way like chickens. She will not thank him for bringing her back, but he can't let her get herself killed out of stubbornness. Let her stab him with her hatred – at least she'll be safe.

Thought of that hate, of the loathing in her eyes, twists his heart. He remembers how she looked at him that night, how, for the first time in what seemed like forever, she made him feel loved, and now – now Thranduil is quite certain that no one has ever hated him as she does.

That too is unwelcome, and he tries to shove it to the back of his mind while he pours himself a very large glass of wine. It really is somehow fitting that it is his lies she believes, and has always believed. He deserves her contempt, her loathing, yet that makes it no easier to bear. She will heal – somehow, he is sure of that – but he will not. He _can't_ – not while he is so very alone.

He downs the glass in three long swallows, staring into the fire. The burn of the alcohol helps, but only so much.

A very large part of him wants to seek her himself, but he knows how poorly _that_ would end.

Perhaps he will follow her anyway – not to confront her, but merely to see her. Huoriel is right; Tauriel will not willingly return, and he ought to observe, even from a distance, how well or poorly her encounter with her fellow guards goes. In the depths of winter, there is little else to occupy his time, and – well, he wants to see her while she cannot see _him_ , wants to observe with his own eyes what she is truly like.

He suspects Huoriel was honest about Tauriel's mental state, but that is merely what she _knows_ about that state. Tauriel could easily have lied.

 _Tauriel cannot lie._ And it's true, more or less. Until twenty years ago, she was the sort to wear her heart on her sleeve. Even afterward, she hasn't lied – she's merely shut everything and everyone out. Everyone but that accursed Dwarf – a _Dwarf_.

And yet, he thinks, as he all but collapses into an armchair, it makes sense. Even in the dark, a Dwarf would never remind her of _him_. From what little he saw, and from all he has gathered, Oakenshield's nephew was the complete antithesis of Thranduil himself, and not just physically. He was much like Tauriel used to be – warm, open, and caring. As Thranduil was that night, in truth. Of course Tauriel's heart would only thaw for someone so wholly unlike him.

Part of him – some twisted, dark, desperate part of his fëa – has hoped, all these years, that somewhere beneath her ice, some lingering trace of her regard for him might remain. Consciously, he's always known that idea rank foolishness, yet being so thoroughly proven wrong hurts. It's no less than he deserves, but even so, the pain in his heart only grows heavier.

He should find her – but he cannot. He is King, and he has duties. He will meet with her when she returns. What he will _say_ , he doesn't yet know, but surely he will think of something. He has to.

* * *

For all that Thranduil has wrecked for Tauriel, at least he did not ruin the stars.

There are millions of them now, massed in the sky like spilled diamonds, visible through the bare, snow-laden branches, and there's something warm in their light, something calming.

The moon, half-full, grants her more than enough light to navigate by, glittering on the snow. Though the sun set hours ago, Tauriel presses on, wanting to put as much distance between her and the halls as she can. Though she doubts Thranduil will send anyone after her, she would still rather not risk it. She can't be sure if he will be angry or relieved that she has slipped away; if it is the former, she would not put it past him to drag her back and lock her up, so she simply won't let him find her.

It's possible, albeit unlikely, that Beorn will not take her in, but in that case, there is always Radagast. _Someone_ will give her shelter, and come springtime, she will wander the forest. She knows where and when the patrols go, and so can easily evade them.

She still isn't quite sure what she is meant to do then, beyond heal herself, but she _is_ sure it will become clear when the time comes. There is a purpose for her, even if she does not yet know what it is.

Meanwhile, she walks, the fog of her breath leaving a cloudy trail in her wake. She's still staggered by how very _light_ she feels, now that the weight of hatred and contempt and regret has been lifted from her heart. There is still pain, for the loss of Kili is like an open wound, but, though it will scar terribly, she will heal from it eventually. He would not wish her to drown in grief forever.

She wonders where Dwarves go when they die. The fate of the Edain is unknown to anyone, but surely Aulë provides for his children. Wherever he is, she takes comfort in the knowledge that he is with his family. He is not alone, and now, neither is she, though she still cannot see what accompanies her. It is enough that she knows it is there.

* * *

In her modest rooms, Huoriel makes ready.

She has no intention whatsoever of trying to bring Tauriel back to the halls, and not just because she physically couldn't do it. She has little doubt that returning would undo whatever strange progress Tauriel has made. Failing to do so means exile, though, so exiled she will be.

And really, that is not so great a hardship as it would have once been. Until the battle, she'd never been away from the Woodland Realm, and now she is not the only one who wonders what lies beyond its borders. Within the next decade, she predicts she will also be far from the only one who leaves, curious to see a land not blighted by evil.

Such were their losses in the battle that few are really pleased with the King right now. Even few are willing to _voice_ their displeasure, even to their friends, but that does not mean it isn't there. And it is the young, she is sure, who will leave, who will venture out into the world.

Perhaps they will find Tauriel. Perhaps they will form their own little society, Elven nomads. They can travel to Lothlórien, or Imladris, or turn south to explore the various lands of the Edain. Middle-Earth is large, and there is much to see, even for people who live forever. To Huoriel, it sounds rather nice.

* * *

Thranduil drinks himself into a stupor, and in the morning wakes with a truly impressive headache. He cannot keep doing this – cannot let his mind be so consumed by an elleth who certainly seems not to want to think of _him_ at all. He is a King, and he has his duties.

The problem is that all his duties have been seen to: the laments are sung each night, the families of the fallen well cared-for. In the depths of winter, they are all of them often at loose ends. It is why the most beautiful things are crafted in winter, why songs are written and families planned for. Under normal circumstances, his people would sing and dance, but the shadow of their losses still casts a pall over everything, and will for some time yet.

Normally, Thranduil would have Legolas to keep him company, if irregularly. Though there's little to guard against in the winter, the guards still nevertheless spend much time outdoors – playing, more or less, and getting some work in while they do it. But Legolas is far beyond his reach now, and is unlikely to return for years. There is little for him to do but think, and that he does not want.

He watches Huoriel leave at dawn, and then he wanders the forest himself, trying to find peace in the snow. It does not really work.

His land is sick, and has been growing sicker by the year. Tauriel is not the only one who has spoken of it to him. Always has he dismissed them, for he's perfectly aware of it himself, but no more. Come spring, he will do what he should have done years ago. Perhaps he will join in the spider hunts; too long has he sat behind the doors of his halls. He is alone, and it _hurts_ , but he is still King. Tauriel might not be here to see him finally heed her words, but perhaps she will hear of it, wherever she is.

Thranduil cannot have her, ever. He knows this, and knows that someday he must accept it. Perhaps, in time, he will, but not if he sits and broods.

A thought occurs to him, while he watches the rising sun paint sparkling patches of gold on the snow. Spider-nests are nearly impossible to find in winter, but the guards usually have a rough idea of where they will spawn. Once all have recovered, he will lead a squadron to hunt them out – surely he would not be the only one grateful for a distraction. They will hunt, and kill, and not think, and when spring comes, they will have more time to devote to healing.

And perhaps, Thranduil thinks, when Legolas returns, his son might forgive him.

* * *

Somehow, Tauriel manages to walk all through the night. Even though she's more healed than anyone but Huoriel knows, she still shouldn't be able to do that. Somehow, she has far more energy than she rightly ought to.

If she keeps on like this, she'll be out of the forest in less than a week. She's not quite sure what she'll tell Beorn, but it has to be the truth. He'll smell a lie on her. Hopefully he will let her get away with simply saying that Thranduil has wronged her, and she cannot stay in the halls anymore. It is true, after all – just a vast simplification. She's met Beorn several times; he seems the sort who would respect a person's privacy. And if not...well. She'll cross that bridge if she comes to it.

"I wish you were here, Kili," she sighed. She can _see_ it all too clearly – the pair of them walking through the forest, him floundering through the snow as they make their way out into the world, to forge their own life somewhere. He wouldn't mind the floundering, she's sure; he'd probably laugh about it.

Tauriel touches her pocket. His runestone resides within it, her talisman against the worst of her grief. _Amrâlimê_ , he'd said, and oh, if only she'd returned the sentiment aloud. She hopes that, wherever he is, he knows that she loves him.

"What would we have called our daughter?" she asks the frigid air. A child of two races would need two names, Elven and Dwarven. She knows nothing of how Dwarves name their children, but she would call a girl Eruantiel – a gift from Eru.

She will never be a mother now, but she doesn't actually mind. She would only want a child if it was Kili's; she only feels deprived because she is also deprived of him.

And it hurts – oh, it hurts, but she doesn't fight the pain. She lets it mingle with her odd sense of peace, lets it work through her. Her grief is a pure thing, and she does not want to deny it, to suppress it. A trace of it will always remain, so she may as well get used to it. If it is going to be a part of her, she has to find room for it, somewhere, and Eru knows she has time. If there is one thing she has in abundance, it is time.

When the sun is directly overhead, she finally pauses to eat. The branches cast veins of blue shadow over the snow, and a very faint puff of breeze sends fine white crystals into the air. They glitter like stars, like diamonds, and Tauriel smiles.

She is free. She is truly free, and not just physically. The mental chains she imposed upon herself have snapped, the malignant ties to a cold, distant creature she should not have wasted the last two decades of her life on. How foolish and stubborn she was. She is stubborn still, but not nearly so foolish. Yes, she let herself be tricked, she believed Thranduil's pretty lies, but she has no more need for self-recrimination. That was then, and this is now.

She still can't let herself think on it yet, cannot face the memory, but in time, she is sure, she _will_ be able to. In time, she will be able to truly put it behind her, and then think on it – and him – no more. She does, after all, have eternity to make new and better memories, to build a life untainted by his presence, by any reminders.

She will be Tauriel again. And she will remain free.

* * *

Thranduil sits in his study, drawing up a roster for his planned spider-hunt, when Galion interrupts him. The butler bears a small wooden box and an envelope, holding each as though uncertain he actually wants to touch either.

"These were delivered from Erebor by courier, my lord," he says. "The messenger would not say what is in them, nor would he linger."

 _That_ is unsurprising – what _is_ surprising is that Dain would allow him to be sent anything at all. "Thank you, Galion. You are dismissed."

The butler leaves, and he sets the box on his desk, undeniably curious. It's old and scratched, but very finely crafted. When he opens the envelope, he finds a piece of parchment that says only, in a blocky, Dwarven hand, _Found this among the mess. It belongs to you_.

A mingling of excitement and dread stirs in his heart, for he thinks he knows now what the box contains. He opens it slowly, reverently, and finds that he is right: within it, glittering like starlight, lie Anameleth's jewels. The White Gems of Lasgalen.

His elation lasts only a moment. They are not as he recalls – they glitter, but their light is cold, remote. Nothing of Anameleth lingers within them; they are beautiful, but impersonal, merely a handful of stones.

He sinks into his chair and shudders, pierced to the heart. For this, he sacrificed hundreds of his people. For this, are his halls now home to widows and widowers, to children who have lost a mother or a father. His people mourn and lament, and all for a box whose contents are now bereft of meaning.

Thranduil slams the lid shut, and very nearly flings the box into the fire. He stalks out of his study and into his room, flinging open the doors to his balcony.

The air is bitterly cold, knifing straight through his clothes. Overhead, the real stars shine, and he thinks of what Tauriel said on that wretched morning, before he ruined everything. She is right: starlight _is_ memory, but just now, memory is the last thing he wants.

What would Anameleth think, if she knew he had wasted their people's lives for a box of jewels? He does not even want to contemplate it.

He has been a terrible king, as well as a terrible person. He must at least try to redress that. The spiders can only be the beginning, the first stepping-stone. He was a good king, once, and a good person; he owes it to his people, to try to regain some measure of both. And he owes it to himself – he hates what he has become, isolated and frozen. He became this out of grief, but, though he still grieves, he must change, or try to. Otherwise, he fears he will Fade, and he has no wish to leave his kingdom and his people in such a state.

Thranduil has much to atone for, so very, very much, but he will start tomorrow. It means he cannot do what he would most _like_ to do right now, that being drink himself into a stupor again; come morning, he will need a clear head.

Sleep, however, is not to be found – he knows that without even trying. The patrol rosters are nearly finished, however, which will leave him with a great deal of time on his hands before dawn, time he has to fill _somehow._

He returns to his room, shutting the doors behind him. The box on his desk seems to mock him, so he shuts it away at the back of a cupboard, out of his sight. Taking out a fresh sheet of parchment, he sits at the desk, and he begins to write. He has much to say, even if the person he would say it _to_ can't stand the sight of him.

* * *

Thranduil too has a lot of shit to work through – some of it the same shit as Tauriel. The pair of them _will_ meet up again, once both have had time to adjust to their changes in perception. Each still has a lot of thinking to do, and a lot of self-analysis. (Which isn't to say their next meeting will be _pleasant_ , but at least it will be a hell of a lot better than their last few interactions. Hell, it might even actually be productive.)

Reviews are my lifeblood, guys. Let me know if I'm on track, or if I should be ashamed of myself and have my keyboard smashed.

geekend: Thank you so much. Thranduil does indeed deserve every ounce of the misery that's found him, and fortunately Tauriel now has a chance to heal.

rosslyn67: Galadriel doesn't give Thranduil a scolding, but _Yavanna_ soon will. You know you've messed up when you've got a Vala chewing you out.


	4. Destination and Progress

In which Tauriel reaches her destination, Beorn wonders what the hell is actually going on in the Woodland Realm, and Thranduil is quite productive (if not happy).

* * *

The sun has only just risen when Tauriel reaches the edge of the forest, and the sky is clear as diamond, a smear of rose and gold and salmon-pink. It's so cold that her lungs burn, yet it makes her feel so very _alive._

She looks out at the horizon, the Misty Mountains in the distance, and has a sudden urge to keep going, to climb the snow-frosted peaks and see what lays among them. That, however, she cannot do; she's nearly out of food, and in any event the mountains are perilous in the winter, even for an Elf.

If she moves at a brisk walk, she should reach Beorn's home by sundown. Anxiety flutters a little in her gut; Beorn is a solitary person, and she realizes she's asking much of him. Winter in this part of the world is, after all, rather long. Still, she won't know if he will house her until she asks, and she cannot ask until she is _at_ his house.

She steps out into the sunshine, adjusting her now much lighter pack. Her strange combination of peace and grief has held, to her relief, though she can't say she's surprised, either. Not when she still feels that unseen presence walking with her. Sometimes it is so strong that she half expects to see another set of footprints in the snow. Tauriel has felt alone for so very long that she had forgotten what it is like to have true companionship, and she is glad beyond words for it now.

* * *

It would be no understatement to say that every single person in the halls is shocked when Thranduil announces the spider-hunt. Save for the battle, he's rarely left the halls since the dragon first took Erebor.

As he'd hoped, it enervates his people, lifting them from the worst of their despair. It is not only the guards who wish to go; he has servants, commoners, even nobility clamoring to accompany him. At this rate, he won't have a party – he'll have a small army.

He himself feels somewhat reinvigorated, even though he's had little sleep in the last week. Every time he closes his eyes without the aid of large amounts of wine, his dreams are terrible – of the battle, of Anameleth's death. Of Tauriel, and her pain and hate-filled eyes.

He has kept on writing letters to her, keeping them in a wooden box on the mantelpiece. In them he pours out all that he seems incapable of saying aloud, his honesty helped by the fact that she will never actually read them. Saving them is dangerous – he doesn't want to _think_ about what would happen if anyone found them – but he finds he cannot bring himself to destroy any of them. And so they accumulate. Perhaps, if he writes enough of them, he will be able to sleep without drinking himself unconscious.

For now, he settles for fastening his cloak. It's bitterly cold out, but movement will keep them all warm enough. He knows that a certain number will likely turn back out of frustration, but he doubts there will be many – this is a better distraction than anything else they are likely to find before spring.

Thranduil strides down to the gates, where he finds his people waiting. If there are fewer than five hundred of them, he would be very surprised, all well bundled against the cold. The Guard all bear unlit torches and boxes of pitch – the only way to kill a nest is to burn it.

His three captains wait at the head of the group, and he feels a momentary pang that Tauriel is not one of them. While he doubts they will find her, perhaps they will find some sign of her. Huoriel left and never returned, evidently preferring banishment to dragging Tauriel home; perhaps they have found one another. He hopes so, for he doesn't like the thought of her being alone.

But he cannot think about them now. He has his task, and it is both simple and straightforward. And his people, it seems, are actually looking forward to it.

"We will split into teams of three," he says, handing a roster to each captain. "You of the Guard know best where to look. Captain Sadronniel, I will go with you."

The elleth looks briefly terrified, but nods. "Yes, my lord."

It grieves him a little, that the thought of having her King at her back would frighten her, but at the same time, he can hardly blame her. It is not as though any could have called him _personable_ since he lost Anameleth, and it has only been worse since he made such a mess of things with Tauriel.

"You need not fear I will eat you, Captain," he says, a little dryly. "I am not a spider."

Now she looks badly startled, probably because it's the closest thing to a joke she would have heard him make in her lifetime. "Yes, my lord," she repeats, but she does not sound nearly so unnerved.

He lets the captains divide their companies, having to improvise quite a bit to accommodate all the civilians. Strangely, he finds he is actually looking forward to this himself – he'd meant it an exercise to unite his people, as a distraction, but the thought does more than distract him. This might, dare he say it, prove something close to fun.

* * *

Sadronniel has absolutely no idea what to make of her King, and she knows she isn't the only one. Up until two days ago, he's spent all the time since the battle drinking and brooding; this is entirely unexpected. And now, on top of that, he's actually made what she'd swear was a _joke_. She wonders if he is ill, or has hit his head very hard. And she doubts she's alone in that.

Still, it is a nice change, and makes her far less nervous about having him in her party. He remains watchful, and quiet unless he absolutely needs to speak, but there is something marginally less frigid about him. He also doesn't seem as distant, and she can't be the only one who wonders about that, too.

He doesn't interfere as she leads them through the snow-laden trees. She's fairly sure that she knows where a nest is, for her squadron had burned out the beginnings of it last fall. Spiders aren't bright; there is a very good chance they've re-built it.

The air is so cold that it stings on her face, but they're moving swiftly enough that she's mostly warm. If anyone in her party isn't, they don't complain – which is surprising, given the number of nobility in it. But then, most of them rarely go outside in the winter, and the beauty of the snow masks the forest's sickness.

It is nearly noon when they reach the potential nest, and then there is the arduous task of actually digging down to it. With the snow so deep, it can't be a swift process.

Except, to her surprise, it's not so arduous after all. Normally, the King's presence would keep chatter to a minimum, but he's less forbidding today, so speech and song seem less like a crime. He doesn't join in, but neither does he scowl.

As she shovels, Sadronniel watches him out of the corner of her eye. That there is sorrow about him is unsurprising, given their very recent losses, but she thinks it's more than that. She's heard stories about his fight with Tauriel in the healing wards, and that when he would visit her afterward, she always refused to speak to him. _Something_ happened between them, something that grieves him as much as it infuriates her, but Sadronniel can scarcely imagine what it might be.

Oh, they've argued frequently over the years, but so much pain and rage could not come from a mere argument. Not unless he offered here _very_ grave insult – which, the King being the way he is, is not only possible, but likely. Tauriel is – or was – an easygoing sort, but there are a few lines you simply do not cross with her, and the King likely leapt right over one. And, him being elitist as he is, Sadronniel thinks she can guess which one.

It's common knowledge that Tauriel does not know who her father is. Her mother died when she was very young, but she always refused to speak of him. Which would not seem especially strange – Eldar can fall in battle like anyone else, and often leave children behind – but it's the red of her hair that makes people wonder. Only one known family has produced hair of that shade, and it is not one anybody would wish to lay kinship to. So far as Sadronniel knows, no one ever actually confronted Tauriel about it, but the King would, and probably did. And seems to have regretted it ever since.

If that is truly what it is – and Sadronniel can't imagine it could be anything else – hopefully Tauriel will return in a century or two, when her temper has run its course. And if the King keeps on – if he keeps actually heeding the arguments she's made over the years – perhaps she might forgive him. Few in the world can hold a grudge like Tauriel, but if she sees that she's been listened to, even belatedly, it might soften her a little.

Sadronniel certainly hopes so. None of the captains like trying to deal with things without her.

* * *

Night has fallen by the time Tauriel reaches Beorn's house.

She's only ever seen it once, sixty years ago, but it hasn't changed. The high wooden fence is mounded with snow, as is the roof, and though she can't see the windows from this side of the fence, the glow of lantern-light shines over it.

Strangely, she finds the gate open – surely he can't always leave it so. His animals might not wander, but far worse things than her could pass through it.

Butterflies flutter in her gut again as she approaches the massive door. This had seemed like such a good idea in the healing wards, but now that she's here, she feels like a fool. She raises her gloved hand, but hesitates to knock.

The door opens before she can change her mind, and she finds herself confronted with its owner. Beorn is as massive as she remembers, nearly a full foot taller than the King, and bear-like even in this for. His eyes, though, are golden like an owl's, and they do not look at all surprised to see her.

"I thought you would be here yesterday," he says, his voice gruff. "Come in."

Tauriel blinks, but does as bidden. The warmth of his home is more than welcome, and his array of animals – goats, hedgehogs, and mice – watch her curiously. With all these creatures, one would expect his house to smell, yet there is only the scent of smoke from the fire.

"How did you know I was coming, Master Beorn?" she asks, as he shuts and bolts the door behind him.

"I have been tracking you for three days," he says. "The deer told me of a lone Elf headed this way. Your people do not go to the mountains in the dead of winter."

That…is actually rather chilling, for she had had no idea at all she was _being_ tracked. "I wasn't going to the mountains," she says softly. "I was hoping I might beg a very great boon of you, and stay here until spring. I can work to earn my keep."

Beorn gestures to his massive table, and she feels unusually petite as she sits on one of the benches – her feet dangle well off the floor. Her pack she puts behind her, where she can easily grab it again, if need be. "Were you banished?"

"I was," she said honestly, "but then I was…injured, and it was revoked, though I do not know if it was temporary or permanent. I left as soon as I was healed enough, because…I could not stay. There is nothing for me there save pain and hate."

He inclines his head. "Go on."

Tauriel sighs. "King Thranduil wronged me very greatly twenty years ago," she says. "I should have left then, but I would not give him the satisfaction. I can stay no longer. Other things have happened, things I cannot heal from within the halls."

"The Dwarf," he says.

She really shouldn't be surprised he knows. He was somewhere in the battle – she saw his bear form, albeit briefly. "Yes," she says, closing her eyes. "Kili. I lost him after I had only just found him. I would have left with him – I would have wandered the whole of Middle-Earth with him. But he is gone, and just now I have no home. I can never return to the halls. They have not truly been my home in twenty years."

She dreads that he will ask more, that he will want to know just what Thranduil did, and nearly sags with relief when he does not. "You may stay as long as you like," he says instead. "I care for many lost creatures. One more is no hardship."

"Thank you, Master Beorn," she says, her voice surprisingly hoarse.

"What is your name, child?"

"Tauriel," she says. "My name is Tauriel, and I am free."

* * *

Beorn really doesn't know what to make of his new guest.

That something in her is broken is plain to see. At no point as he smelled a lie on her, but he knows she has not told him the whole truth. He suspects, however, that she does not hide it out of deviousness, but of pain. Whatever wrong the Elvenking has done her hurt her, and not physically.

She is beginning to heal, though – that too he can see. She will not fade from this world as her kind sometimes do. Wintering here will make her strong, and then she will forge a new life somewhere. He has healed many wounded creatures over the centuries; as he told her, one more is no burden.

Though her kind rarely sleep, she must be exhausted, for she curls up in the straw with the goats and is fast asleep within moments. He guesses she is young for an Elf, though likely several hundred years older than him.

She will heal, and she will grow, and perhaps, in time, she will tell him the whole of her story. Only then will he know just how angry he should be at the Elvenking.

* * *

There really is something beautiful about the sight of a burning spider-nest.

They've found more today than Thranduil had hoped, and while he could do without the _smell_ , the sight of the flames licking skyward is lovely. It is cleansing, burning away the infection in his forest.

The stars are out in force now, the waxing moon sailing between them, and he is, if not happy, at least satisfied.

He cannot be _happy_ – not without Legolas and Tauriel beside him. He can picture his son's satisfaction, and her smile, all too clearly. They should be here to witness this, but Legolas wanders the world, and Tauriel is likely with Beorn, waiting out the winter so she can leave Thranduil forever. The pain of that thought precludes happiness, but at least he is _doing_ something.

His people are happy, at least. Work has lifted some of the sorrow of their loss, reminded them that there is still something worth working _for_. Yes, they have lost loved ones, but their home stands still, and can be healed. It will take decades or even centuries, but for the first time in far too long, they can actually, truly _do_ something about it.

All day he's felt their curious stares, heard their whispers: unsurprisingly, they wonder at the change that has come over him, that he should stir himself now after so very long. How terrible a king has he been, that his own people marvel at the fact that he should do physical work outside of battle or training? He doesn't want an answer to that, because he already knows. He has hardly been an inactive king – he's simply done most of it from afar, a step or three removed from the majority of his people.

But no more. Such a change is not easy, and will not be effected overnight, because he's been solitary for so long that trying to break that habit all at once would drive him mad. When his son returns – if Tauriel returns – they will not find the kingdom as they left it.

Tauriel. The dancing fire reminds him of her – the woman in the starlight, whose hair is a river of flame. Where is she now? Is she safe with Beorn, or does she wander these deadly woods with nothing but moonlight to guide her way? Oh, Huoriel is right – few know this forest as well as Tauriel – but there is still so very much that could go wrong. Perhaps, as Huoriel said, she has healed more than most know, but mere weeks ago she very nearly died.

The itch to go after her is nearly unendurable. No, she would not willingly return with him, but at the very least he could see her safely to Beorn's home – could _see_ her, one last time, but that would still be a terrible idea, and he still knows it. How can she hope to heal, if he will not let her go? He has done her not a whit of good in twenty years; she's far better off without him.

Thranduil knows this, and yet a selfish part of him doesn't care. It whispers that she _could_ be better off with him, if he could but earn her forgiveness, but that is entirely impossible. Another part of him, a darker part, doesn't _want_ her to forgive him, because it knows that he does not deserve it, and likely never will. That sadistic inner voices revels in his torment, twists the knife in his heart at unexpected moments.

But for now, he must force all of that aside. He cannot let his people see him mourn – not right now. He will grieve later, in the privacy of his rooms, and perhaps write Tauriel another letter.

* * *

 _Tauriel,_

 _Even yet, I do not know how to address you, for I am certain you would slaughter me if I called you 'dearest'. I could hardly blame you for it._

 _It is far too late for you to see the fruits of your arguments, but finally I have heeded them. Come spring, the forest will be, if not cleared of spiders, at least spawning far fewer of the things._

 _And come spring, I will do as you have so long implored (and shouted). I will take a party with me to Dol Guldur, and burn out the heart of them. I should have listened to you centuries ago, but I was and remain a fool._

 _I swear that I saw the form of you in the fire. Never can I see a flame without thinking of you – not only of your hair, but of your fëa. You shine more brightly than anyone or anything else in this kingdom, and I spoke truth when I said it is a darker place without you. I am not the only one who has noticed, though I think that as yet I am the only one who can articulate it._

 _I miss you. I know that you hate me, and that you have every right to, but even when you avoided the very sight of me, I always knew you were there. I never, ever meant for you to leave, Tauriel – I would never have wished to drive you away. When I sought you that night, it was because you reminded me of my wife, but not in body or, in truth, in temperament – you and Anameleth are night and day. Your fëa,_ that _is the resemblance; both of you burn like the heart of a star, like the light of Eärendil. I wish I could tell you, I wish that you would_ believe _that my regard for you that night was pure._

 _The next morning, I was guilty, and I was angry, but not at you. What we had done was wrong, or so I thought, but it was not your fault. I knew it then, and yet I was a fool, and I was_ afraid _, afraid of what I felt, after being alone for so very long. When you smiled at me, I wanted to smile back. I wanted so much that I knew – know – I do not deserve, and I drove you away because I did not know what else to do._

 _I do not deserve your forgiveness, Tauriel, and I am not mad enough to ever expect it, but I wish I had not hurt you so._ You _did not deserve what I gave you, what I know I made you feel, and oh, how I wish you could believe it. I have watched your hatred for me poison you, and I would have it do so no longer. I hope that you can find peace this winter, and wherever you go when spring arrives. I would not have you suffer because of my idiotic cruelty any longer._

 _I know you will never believe me, Tauriel, so I will do the only thing that I can. I will do what you would do, had you my power. What I should have done long ago. And I hope that, wherever you go, you might hear of it, and know that your old home does not continue to fall into darkness._

 _Le melin, Tauriel, though you will never know._

* * *

When Tauriel wakes the next morning, the sun is well up, and there is a goat snuggled against her back.

Well. That's new.

It is a warm goat, and it seems to be quite content, so she lets it be for a moment. She hasn't slept since she left the halls, so it's no real wonder she slept so very long last night.

When she rises, she finds a note on the table, along with a loaf of bread, pat of butter, and a small jar of honey. The note says only, _I will return at nightfall. The bathing tub is out back._

In spite of herself, she laughs. After a week on the road, she could use a bath. She eats her breakfast faster than she probably ought to, quite suddenly ravenous, and fills the huge kettle over the fire with water. The sunlight that streams through the windows is golden, dust motes floating hazily in the air, and she thinks that there is much to be said for actually living under the sky. However cold or hot it might be, it could not trap a person.

The biggest cat she's ever seen wanders up and rubs its head against her legs. It really is _huge_ – its back is level with her knees, and seems all the bigger because its ginger fur is incredibly fluffy. She kneels down to scratch behind its ears, and it purrs so loudly she can feel it buzzing in her teeth.

Yes, she will heal here. _Anything_ could heal here.

* * *

Well, the guards had to speculate _something_ , and they're hardly going to guess the real thing. Thranduil insulting Tauriel by accusing her of being some descendant of Fëanor would certainly piss her off to no end, and explain her two-decade grudge.

Meanwhile, Thranduil doesn't know it yet, but he might be dealing with a severely pissed-off Beorn in the not so distant future – Beorn, after all, does not take kindly to people who hurt innocent creatures, and Tauriel just now seems even younger than she already is.

'the woman in the starlight, whose hair is a river of flame' is from _The Same Night Sky_ , and is going to haunt Thranduil for ages more.

As for Huoriel, I have not forgotten her – she'll turn up next chapter, with news about just what Thranduil's been doing in the forest. (She doesn't have Yavanna feeding her energy; the trip is taking her longer.) Reviews give me life, and let me know how well or poorly I'm doing.


	5. A Meeting, of Sorts

In which Tauriel slays her demons, Thranduil wrestles with his, and they meet.

Sort of.

* * *

Life with Beorn is full of new experiences.

Tauriel has been a guard for most of her adult life, and even before that, she was training to be one. She has little experience with livestock, but Beorn's animals are gentle, even if she does also suspect they sometimes laugh at her.

Her first attempt to milk a goat is an utter disaster. She vaguely remembers her mother milking their cow when she was very small, but that is a long time ago. There's far more milk on the floor than in the bowl, and the goat gives her a look that is downright offended.

Beorn's eyes laugh, even if he doesn't give voice to it, and all she can do is smile ruefully. At least she knows how to clean up after herself.

Chopping wood is easier, though her convalescence has left her weaker than she likes, and she often has to stop to rest. Beorn tries to feed her far more than she can actually eat, but it's making her stronger. He never eats any meat – his diet seems to consist mainly of bread, fruit, and cream – but she doesn't miss it.

There are a surprising number of things she doesn't miss. Even with her grief, she's happier out here than she would have thought possible.

And then Huoriel arrives.

Beorn regards her with open curiosity as she sits at his vast table. She's obviously weary, and accepts a mug of warm milk and honey gratefully.

"The King told me I could bring you back, or consider myself banished," she says, loosening her scarf. "I chose banishment, and not only because I knew you would break both my legs if I chose otherwise."

Out of the corner of her eye, Tauriel sees Beorn tense. She knows he's not happy that his neighbor drove away one of his own people, for whatever unknown reason; knowing he's sent someone to drag that person back against their will can only be making that worse.

"You may stay here, for the winter," he says, and Tauriel hopes he's not going to wind up with even more guests. That will depend on how stubborn Thranduil decides to be.

"Thank you, Master Beorn," Huoriel says. "I find I would like to see the world outside our borders. Though strange things are happening within them, too."

"What do you mean?" Tauriel asks, staring down into her own mug.

"I ran across Faelon on my way," Huoriel says. "He had an entire party out, hunting and burning spider nests."

 _That_ is a surprise. "The King let him?"

"It was the King's _idea._ Faelon was not the only one, and apparently the King himself was with Sadronniel."

 _Poor Sadronniel_. Tauriel really hopes she's not to be Thranduil's next victim. She gives a bitter laugh. "Of course he waits until I am gone to heed my suggestions. He probably hopes it will lure Legolas home."

"I do not know _what_ he hopes," Huoriel says, draining her mug. "Faelon didn't know what to make of it, and I don't think anyone else did, either. You should have seen it, Tauriel – it wasn't just guards. He had cooks and kitchen maids, stable boys, two tanners, four councilors, and Lady Silwen."

To her own surprise, Tauriel bursts out laughing. _That_ is a mental image she will never, ever get rid of. "Has everyone gone mad in my absence?"

"They just might have," Huoriel says, shaking her head. "I only wonder what will happen next. If the King does not keep on, others will. Things are changing."

"It's past time for that. I only wish it had started a century ago." Thought of what might have been has troubled her for twenty years – while she could hardly have refused Thranduil's summons, she could have refused _him_ , and gone on to do far more good.

But that is in the past, and it sounds like come springtime, she might well see much changed in the forest, even if no one else will see _her_.

Well, no one but, perhaps, Huoriel. Tauriel is fairly sure the former lieutenant will want to continue out into the world, but perhaps she'll linger for a time. Tauriel wouldn't mind the company.

"Well, it has started now, with a vengeance. We might yet hear some more strange things, before the winter is over."

* * *

Beorn is actually glad he has two Elves to house.

On his own, he doesn't think he could have healed Tauriel so well, because he is not an Elf, and doesn't truly know what they need. Huoriel seems to be of an age with her, making her very young for one of their kind, and together they learn to live as he does.

He realizes in short order that Huoriel knows no more about why Tauriel left than he does. Whatever drove her to it hurts so much that she won't share it even with her own kin, and he finds himself growing ever angrier at the Elvenking. He has no use at all for people who harm innocent creatures, and Tauriel, even with all she has seen and endured and lost, _is_ innocent. She knows next to nothing of the world beyond her borders.

Huoriel doesn't, either, so they are learning together. They laugh a great deal, and if Tauriel's laughter is more subdued…well. Spring is still months away.

He watches the air of them chop wood in the sunshine, chattering away in their own tongue. In the last weeks, Tauriel's strength has slowly returned, her face losing its bloodless pallor. She still disappears from time to time to cry, but she is in mourning – it's understandable. He no longer fears it will consume her.

The cat, Monren, wanders over to see what they're doing, bounding through the snow. He's taken an especial liking to Tauriel; on the nights that she sleeps, he'll lie curled up near (or on) her. She sets her axe aside and kneels to scratch his ears, and Beorn can hear him purring even at a distance.

He wonders if this is what it's like to have children. As the last of his kind, he'll never know for sure, but he would wager this is close. Yes, these two are centuries older than he is, but by the reckoning of their own people, they're both very young.

They are young, and King Thranduil drove them away – and severely wounded one, in spirit if not in body. Should any of his soldiers come in search of them, they will not find themselves welcome guests – not unless they too seek sanctuary.

And if he sees Thranduil himself, the Elvenking will sorely regret it.

* * *

 _The ellon wanders the wilderness without form or purpose, eating and drinking only when he remembers to, sleeping when he drops from exhaustion._

 _How long has he done so? He doesn't know. There is much he doesn't know – his name, his age, his family. Something in him will not search for any o those things, and he avoids all settlements, be they Elven, Edain, or Dwarven. The wilds are his home, inasmuch as he has a home, the sky his only roof. None but an Elf could survive the harshness of his life, which is one of the few reasons he knows that he_ is _an Elf._

 _There is something out there, though, something he should see – if only he could remember what it_ is. _Perhaps, one day, he will remember, and then he will hunt it down._

* * *

Winter passes, and slowly but surely the Woodland Realm wakes. The snow still lies heavy on the ground, but now it begins to soften and noon (and freeze into a sheet of solid ice at night).

The ordinary humdrum of past winters seems to have been permanently destroyed. Even those who have no task to bring them outside often go anyway, enjoying sunshine that is actually starting to have a little warmth in it. There is even occasional laughter, for all that most of them still mourn. The worst of their grief is fading, aided by the new life within their kingdom.

Thranduil watches, and wishes it would have some effect on him. There is nothing to be done for his grief, for it's so thoroughly of his own making. He drinks no less, and sleeps no more.

How long will Legolas stay away? Will he not return until the work is done? Thranduil isn't sure if he wants that or not – it might be good for his son to see the work in motion.

And Tauriel…oh, how he wishes he could know where she means to go, when the snow thaws. Logic would dictate Lothlórien, but she has to know that is the first place he would look for her. If she truly intends to sail, Imladris would be a better option, but that worries him. She has never traveled far from home, and unlike Legolas, will not have companions to guide her. Huoriel, if they have indeed found one another, knows no more of the world than she does. Both are more than capable warriors, and yet he worries anyway. He can't help it.

* * *

Late though it is, Tauriel can't sleep.

Huoriel has no such problem; she is dead to the world, and Beorn is out prowling in bear-form. Tauriel is alone, and restless.

Eventually she rises, bundling herself into her warmest clothes, and steps out into the frigid night.

The moon is full, lighting up the snow so that it's nearly bright as day, and the fog of her breath wreathes her like a frosty cloud. Though the days are warming, the nights remain icy, but just now she doesn't mind. The cold is bracing, and she needs to be braced, because it's time, she thinks, to confront her memory. _That_ memory, the one that hurts so much she's buried it for twenty years. She can't give it power over her any longer.

Without her strange feeling of companionship, she probably couldn't do it, but that unseen presence has lingered all these weeks, warming her whenever the chill of despair threatens. She wishes she knew what it is, who to thank, but it remains nameless.

Nimbly, she leaps up the woodpile and onto the roof, feeling an abstract need to be closer to the stars. This is going to hurt, and they may aid her.

She'd been so happy that morning, she thinks, as she settles into the snow. Happier, really, that she could – and can – ever remember. Before Thranduil woke, before he opened his mouth and so indifferently torn her to pieces, she'd naively thought they'd shared something, their own secret, because oh, he had been such a very convincing liar. He'd called her lovely the night before, had looked at her like she was the sum of all that was good in the world, with something akin to reverence, which was why his dismissal had come as such a shock.

He'd known, she realizes in hindsight, that she would never have given herself to him if she hadn't thought he cared in some way. _Ample entertainment_ , he'd called her, so cold and distant, and oh, how that had _hurt_. She would never have provided _ample entertainment_ and nothing more, and he _knew_ it, and knowing that everything he'd said, that everything she thought he had shown her was a lie…even with how much she's healed in the last weeks, in body, mind, and fëa, it still hurts.

She'd held Thranduil in high regard – had loved him, after a fashion – and he'd known it, and used it against her, not caring at all what it would do to her, how much it would hurt. And that, strangely, is what pains her the most: knowing that someone she cared about, someone whose supposed regard she cherished, thought her worth nothing.

The memory, the thought, is like a knife in her heart even now. Never in all her life had anyone or anything made her feel so worthless, so much like a…like a _thing_ , to be used and discarded without thought or care. She wondered – and still wonders – how many there were before her, and how many have followed.

 _You provided ample entertainment, and I thank you for it._

Tauriel snorts, even as the knife twists. Such gratitude.

 _Do not presume above your station. I will not have you assuming such…familiarity._

That was rich – she was not the one who had assumed or encouraged any manner of familiarity. She never would have, had he not invited her.

 _You are fair enough, and capable, yes, and I wanted to have you, but surely you did not believe I desired anything more?_

She still doesn't know how he had the gall to say that – he had to have known full well that she would not have gone to bed with him if there had not been _something_ more. No, they obviously could never have had anything _openly_ , but even if their night was never to be repeated, she wanted his regard. She wanted to know that he _cared_ , that what she had given him actually meant something, and discovering how very wrong she was had been like a blow to the chest.

So she'd frozen. She'd had to, or she would have shattered, and she absolutely would not give him the satisfaction. She wouldn't disappear and allow him to forget her; he would face her loathing, her contempt, and realize that her presence would not be so easily dismissed. Tauriel would do her job and be a thorn in his side, would argue and confront and do her best to drive him to even more drink. He had made her life a misery; if she could not do the same to him, she would at least make it as uncomfortable as she could.

And if, in that first year, she sometimes cried at night – well, at least no one ever knew. In time, her tears froze with the rest of her heart, and thought of Thranduil brought only loathing, not pain. She took those memories and locked them away, never to be examined.

Until now.

She has to face it, to purge it, if she is ever truly to move on. Yes, she was betrayed, and terribly so, but it is in the past, and she is free. Thranduil has no hold on her life now, and no place in it. _He_ is the worthless one, the lying king with a heart of stone who cares for nothing and no one. For she questions, and has for some time, how much he even loves his son. He's a pathetic creature, really, icy and loveless, and Eru knows Legolas is the only creature in all of Middle-Earth who loves _him._

He _is_ worthless, she decides, even as tears fall and freeze on her cheeks. She can never forget what he did to her, for Elven memories do not work that way, but it need haunt her no longer.

But still she weeps, for she must purge the last of the poison from her fëa. Once it is gone, her mind will be as free as the rest of her.

Yes, Thranduil lied, used, and betrayed her. Yes, it was terrible, but it _was_ , not _is_. Though her heart has been buried with Kili, there are others out there she will love, in different ways, and others who will love her, who will value her for whatever she is worth. She's known long along that she's worth more than the little Thranduil thinks of her, but not until she left the halls has she truly _believed_ it.

She is Tauriel, daughter of Amaniel, and she has worth. She is strong, and stubborn, and loyal to those who deserve her loyalty. Thranduil and his lies are the past; what her future holds, she doesn't know, but she can face it now with a clear mind and heart.

* * *

Having lived all her life in the sick forest of the Woodland Realm, Tauriel realizes that she didn't truly know what spring is until now.

Last year's dead, golden-brown grass is giving way to vivid green, and it seems like each morning, hundreds of new wildflowers have sprung up from the earth. Most places in the forest are too dark for wildflowers, so she's only really ever seen them when her patrols have taken her to the edge of the trees.

And the smell of things…even in high summer, the forest is never truly free of the scent of mildew. The air out here is clear, pure, and she decides that when she goes back, her first task will be to start thinning the canopy, and letting a little more light through.

And she's going, very soon. Huoriel has no plans to join her yet – in fact, thinks she's utterly mad – but she might, in time. If not, Tauriel will simply have to visit often. Huoriel, for now, seems content to stay in one spot, but Tauriel has been growing ever more restless. She does, after all, have a purpose to find.

* * *

With the arrival of spring, Thranduil's people lift their eyes and hearts skyward.

They are willing – eager, even – to go outside and get their hands dirty. On any given day, he can even see some of the nobility, clearing away the noxious, toxic weeds, and planting good things in their place. While there is little laughter, there's a great deal of song. His people are healing with their forest.

Thranduil himself is not. Somehow, the coming of spring has only made his heart heavier. He joins in their work, because he is King and he started this, but he has no smiles nor songs to offer. Instead, he sinks deeper into melancholy.

The people, he knows, pity him, but he can't summon enough energy to be angry about it. He also knows there have been whispers about sending someone to find Legolas and bring him home, but Legolas alone could not stem the tide of his depression. There are two people his heart aches for, and one of them is likely gone beyond his reach forever, now.

But he works, because he must. If he can know no peace, at least his kingdom can. He is too broken to be a good person, but he can try to be a good king.

He's not working among the trees today, however. Today he'll lead a party into the woods, to make certain the spider nests they burned are completely dead. So far there have been no reports of the creatures, but it is early yet. Any that survived will still be newly hatched.

In a fortnight, they will take on Dol Guldur.

He wishes they could have done it over the winter, but that ruinous fortress is too treacherous in the snow. Early spring is the best time, because the spiders won't be anything close to grown – poisonous, yes, but not nearly so huge or deadly. If they are lucky, they will lose no more Elven life.

But that is the future, and this is now.

He stands in the center of the path, facing the large assemblage of his people. Sunlight dapples them through the newly-opened leaves, sparking gold off hair and knives. He hopes they need not use the torches and pitch again; the forest isn't dry enough to burn, but he'd still rather not take any chances.

He knows he should say something, but he can find no words, so he merely beckons his people to follow. Most of them will return to the halls at nightfall, but he does not intend to; while being alone is of no help to him, perhaps a solitary night or two in the forest will be of greater benefit. Within the halls, he is alone even while surrounded by people, but he need keep up no pretense if there are none but the trees to witness him. He is healing his kingdom; perhaps it might try to return the favor.

They follow, his people, and though they're quiet, it's the quiet of people watchful of their surroundings, rather than fear to speak. A faint breeze whispers through the new leaves, still chilly from its passage over the distant, snow-capped mountains. It will only be a few weeks before it warms, though, and spring begins in earnest.

He can feel the life of the forest surging beneath his boots, the sum of all its disparate parts waking to the first realm warmth of the sun, and he feels…he feels…not _lighter_ , exactly, but the heaviness he carries is easier to bear. A few nights spent in the arms of his realm really do seem like a good idea.

And strangely, as they walk, he sees things he has not seen in centuries. Soft green moss, quite different from the slimy sort endemic to the trees, and here and there a delicate deer-fern. It would seem that the wider forest is already healing.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize that these changes, these bits of new life, run directly along the path. It's as though someone has already gone ahead of them all, and begun healing things independently of them. Has someone been at work without informing him? He wouldn't be surprised; his people have shown remarkable initiative of late.

When they reach the first of the nests, they find it is indeed very dead; nothing has a chance of spawning from it. It's nothing but a blackened, pitch-filled pit, dark and cold.

Weirdly, though, there are moss and ferns here as well, and even a few tiny pink phlox. Surely no one would have ventured here, left seeds, and not told anyone they had done it. But now that he looks, some o the pitch is newer – someone _was_ here, making full certain the job was done.

It is a mystery, and Thranduil doesn't like mysteries – not even helpful ones.

He says nothing, and if anyone else notices, they don't mention it. When he returns to the halls, he will question his captains – even if they do not know who has done this, they might have some idea.

The next nest is the same, and the one after, and now he's downright unnerved. It wouldn't be so bad if it was only the pitch, but the flowers…phlox, violas, creeping blue lobelia, none of them belong here. In some places, branches have been removed from the canopy, and golden shafts of sunlight pierce the gloom.

Someone has been very busy.

He looks at Sadronniel, who has come up beside him. "Captain, what do you know of this?"

"Nothing, my lord," she says, and indeed she looks as confused as he feels. "Whoever has done this, they did so without any of the Captains' knowledge. And I have no idea where they got the viola seeds." Violas are a sun-loving flower, and of no medicinal use, so the seeds aren't part of the customary stock.

"Question the guards, when you return tonight," he orders. "Tell them I do not intend to punish whoever has gone to such trouble – I merely wish to know who they are."

"Yes, my lord."

* * *

Tauriel has been busy.

Since she doesn't know just what her purpose is meant to be, she decides to make her own until she finds out. Huoriel was right; a number of spider-nests _have_ been taken out, but Tauriel ensures they will _stay_ out, and deals with those that were not found in the snow.

She doesn't notice the flowers at first, but when she starts to spot them, she'll scale the trees and lop away enough branches to give the poor things some light. The bark is rough beneath her hands and feet, for she's taken to going barefoot: now that the snow is gone, it feels more natural. It's not _safe_ – in fact, it's downright foolish, but the urge to really feel the earth beneath her feet is irresistible.

And feel she does – not just the earth, but the warmth of the sun and the sigh of the wind over her skin are shockingly intense, as are the myriad scents of the forest. It's as though she's spent her entire life smothered by cotton wool, and only now been set free.

It's evening now, and she's been hard at work all day, leaping from branch to branch and severing the remains of last year's spiderwebs. At one point, a vivid blue butterfly came up and landed on her nose, and she stood patiently still until it fluttered on its way again. She's tired now, and hungry; it being too early to hunt, Beorn has provided her with crocks of dried fruit, sealed jars of honey, and bread that has stayed remarkably fresh this last week.

She is home, she thinks, as she heads toward her camp, still hopping from branch to branch. The halls, the Realm, they are not her home – the _forest_ is. It has stood since long before there was a king, a realm, and she thinks it will outlast them all.

Her camp is up high in a tree, the better to remain undiscovered by any wayward travelers. She doesn't bother with a risky fire, though the nights are still rather cold; she bundles up in her cloak and three blankets, and watches the stars come out one by one, winking in the blue-black velvet of the sky.

Today, however, there _is_ fire – on the ground, almost right below her tree, the red-orange glow so strange and out-of-place.

Someone is trespassing.

She creeps along her high branch – not silently, for silence would be noticed. Instead she moves with the sigh of the wind, letting the rustling of the leaves cover her movements. Carefully, and oh so slowly, she makes her way to a perch that allows her to see the ground without being seen herself.

It's a campfire, and unsurprisingly, obviously constructed by an Elf. This is well off the patrols' usual path, however, and only one person sits beside it, hooded and cloaked, head bowed. The figure radiates such an air of suffering she can practically taste it, but she dare not reveal herself. She won't risk being found.

This leaves her with something of a problem. She has her pick of other trees to sleep in, but all her blankets are in the one above the stranger's head, and she has no desire to spend the whole night shivering. The breeze is downright icy, but it will also continue to mask her movement, so she lets it, creeping her way along again.

Tauriel nearly falls off the branch in shock when the figure pushes its hood back, and reveals an unmistakable head of silvery hair. Only Thranduil and Legolas have such hair; Legolas keeps his braided away from his face, but there are no braids to be seen now.

Thranduil.

It's just her luck, she thinks. The last person in the world she wants to see, and he's picked the tree she lives in to camp under. What is he _doing_ out here, all alone? Has he gone mad? Perhaps it's wrong of her, but she rather hopes so. She might have moved past her hatred, but that doesn't mean she can't wish a little misery on him.

She holds her breath for far too long, but he doesn't move, or look up. Eventually she inches her way along again, until she's safe in the bowl of branches she currently calls home. It is a bowl, too – or more accurately, a sort of basket, in which she's built a nest like an overgrown bird. He can't see her in here, and if he hears any of her movements – well, there are a lot of birds this year, far more so than normal.

Tauriel wraps herself in her blankets, grateful for the warmth on her feet, and peers through a tiny gap in the branches. She still has no idea what he's doing out here all by himself, and while she knows she should ignore him and go to sleep, she can't deny she is curious. It's so very unlike him, and she has no wish at all to contend with an unpredictable Elvenking.

For a long while, he does nothing save sit and stare into the fire, and she uses its crackle and the continuing breeze to mask the sounds of her eating bread. She's not surprised he is silent, as he has no one to speak to – nor is she surprised by the bottle of wine he removes from his pack.

Seeing him now is…strange. Lacking her long-held hatred, he seems somehow diminished. There's still power in him, even in the very set of his shoulders, but he has no power over _her_ anymore. She can't quite bring herself to pity him, for all he sits alone and drinks – the healing of her long-nursed pain is still too new – but neither does she revel in his misery, as she would have done even a few months ago.

But _why_ is he here? Perhaps even he does not know. Perhaps he really _is_ mad.

He draws a knife, the blade glinting in the firelight, and stares at it for a long while. Eru, is he following her example, and intending to take his own life?

Part of Tauriel – a very _large_ part – is tempted to let him get on with it. But Legolas, even though he's left, would mourn, and he's in no way ready to be king.

However, she's not willing to reveal herself, either, so she does the only thing she can think of: she takes her single empty pottery crock, aims, and drops it onto Thranduil's head.

It must be stronger than it looks, for it doesn't break, but it _does_ knock him out cold, and she'd be lying if she said there wasn't a certain satisfaction to be had in it. She scales down the tree, takes the crock and his knife, and on impulse carves 'no' into the dirt, right where he'll see it when he wakes.

And then she's back in her tree, curled up in her blankets, quite at one with the world. She's saved Thranduil's life and hurt him at the same time.

In that, they are now even.

* * *

When Thranduil wakes, it is to a throbbing headache, and a lump the size of an egg on his brow.

Dawn has given way to morning, and the fire is long cold. Worryingly, his knife is missing – the question is not _what_ knocked him out, but _who_ – and why.

He sits up, wincing, and notices the 'no' carved very plainly into the earth. Someone wants him alive, but has no compunction about hurting him to achieve it. The mystery deepens, and he likes it less than ever.

He looks up, squinting in the sunlight, but isn't surprised when he sees nothing. His would-be savior, whoever he or she is, is likely long gone.

The fact that someone was watching him without his knowledge is chilling. A warrior experienced as he should have known better. Even another Elf shouldn't be able to track him without detection; certainly he can think of none in his halls or out of them stealthy enough for that.

There are more flowers, he sees, sprung up seemingly overnight, and he's almost disturbed to see that some of them are athelas plants. At least he has something for his headache.

He rebuilds the fire, and sets a small pot of water beside it, waiting for the coals to heat it. The warmth is welcoming in the still-chill morning air.

Thranduil glances at the trees while he waits. His watcher might be gone, but, as he was so thoroughly unaware of their presence last night, for all he knows, they watch him still. _That_ thought is even more chilling, despite the fact that they obviously mean him no actual _harm_. Possibly a concussion, but a concussion given to prevent him from stabbing himself.

He hadn't actually been going to take his own life, but clearly his unseen companion had thought otherwise. It must be someone who has at least guessed the true depth of his melancholy, and he can think of few of those – and he can think of _none_ who would risk his wrath by following him against orders, nor who has the skill to do so completely unnoticed. Not even _Legolas_ could move so thoroughly unseen, and Thranduil had trained the boy himself.

"If you are still out there," he says, feeling a bit ridiculous, "I have no intention of taking my own life. I thank you for your somewhat painful concern, but I will not abandon my duty to my people."

Unsurprisingly, he receives no answer. He can't shake the sensation that he is being watched, but that could easily all be in his mind.

Even if he is, he must eat, and bathe the lump on his brow, so he does, while beams of gold pierce through holes that were not in the canopy yesterday. His companion has evidently been busy while he was unconscious.

When he breaks camp, all his senses are hyper-alert – if he is being followed now, he will know of it. There's no shadow in his mind, no moving patch of silence, no sound save that of breeze and birdsong. There can be absolutely nothing there, and yet he knows, _knows_ he is being watched. It's the most unsettling thing he's felt in centuries, and it's almost enough to make him turn back.

Almost. If he does not drain out the worst of this despair here, he never will – and while he wouldn't take his own life, eventually he will Fade. That task is going to made infinitely more difficult by his watcher, however – his whole point in coming out here was to be alone, and he's so obviously not alone now.

Damn.

He does his best to ignore it, to focus on the forest itself, but even that unnerves him. Whoever has been at work on the spider-nests and planting the flowers has also been severing old webs, letting more light to the ground even where the canopy remains thick. There is someone else out there who cares for these woods, and cares deeply – and, when he pauses for lunch in a sudden bed of tiny pink daisies, he thinks he knows who.

There are no footprints, no sign that anyone has been here, but tangled on the spines of a gorse bush is a single, very long, very _red_ hair.

Thranduil's breath catches in his throat. He's careful not to react, not to let on that he has found something, but only one person in his entire kingdom has hair of that length and hue.

Tauriel has not gone far after all.

It makes a certain amount of sense. It's him she hates, not the forest, and the Greenwood – _Mirkwood_ , though he loathes the name – is vast. She could have lived here for centuries undetected, if not for her hair.

If she is here, she will have noticed his efforts, and he hopes she can take a measure of comfort in it, knowing that she is not the only one who cares. He hopes that she knows she set change in motion.

But if it is really Tauriel, why would she stop him, if she believed he meant to take his own life? Knocking him unconscious, _that_ he can see, but she _hates_ him. He would think she would happily watch him die.

But then, Legolas would have to come home, and perform a task he does not want. And things _are_ changing – perhaps the work that has been done over the winter drove her to do what she thought was saving his life. Either way, he's oddly warmed by it. She might hate him, but at least she sees that he is _doing_ something.

He picks a flower, and uses it to mask the action of grabbing the hair. While Tauriel left most of her personal effects, she left nothing of _her_ ; this strand, this thread of flame, is part of her, both infinitely more painful and more comforting than the box of lifeless jewels that still resides at the back of a cupboard.

 _Thank you_ , he thinks, tucking both hair and flower into his pocket. _Le melin, Tauriel, though you will never know._

* * *

Okay, Thranduil, that was a tidbit creepy, but I'll forgive you. Tauriel might not; though she no longer hates you, she's a long, long way from forgiving you.

She is, of course, entirely wrong about him, but it's not like he's ever given her cause to know better. She's starting to get some evidence to the contrary, and will get more when they actually properly meet up again, though it won't be nearly enough to convince her yet. (And oh, just wait until he finds out everything she's thought all this time. The angst, the aaaangst. I love Thranduil, and yet I adore torturing the shit out of him far too much.)

Who is our mystery, amnesiac Elf? You'll find out soon enough. Thranduil's going to be utterly horrified to see him.


	6. Revelations

In which Thranduil is busy, Yavanna interferes, and he and Tauriel properly meet.

* * *

Knowing Tauriel lingers in the forest helps Thranduil immensely, as does that single strand of hair. It resides in a bottle in his desk, where none can find it, and he's wise enough now to put a lock on his box of letters.

The worst of his melancholy lifts, and when it threatens to descend again, he thinks of her running among the trees, planting flowers and killing spiders.

He could, of course, give orders for her to be caught, but he finds he doesn't want to – and not only because it wouldn't work. Tauriel has been miserable in the halls, and would be miserable again, but she must be enjoying herself in the forest, or she wouldn't linger. He cannot see her, but at least he knows she's there.

And then there is the assault on Dol Guldur.

He musters not just the Guard, but those of his soldiers capable of so long a march. None of them know just what they will find there, but there is a reason he has never let any of the Guard venture into it, and it is not because the crumbling fortress lies beyond their borders. Even lingers there, of a sort none of them have ever known, and he would not subject them to it.

Now, though, they have done so much work killing the spiders that he _has_ to destroy the source, and with enough people, he thinks they can manage it. A full thousand march silently behind him, and have for the last two days, but they can't assault the fortress until tomorrow morning, when they will have full daylight.

He sees yet more evidence of Tauriel's handiwork along the way. In many places the canopy has been drastically thinned, and the sunny spaces beneath it are carpeted with wildflowers. Ivy and pale morning-glories creep up the ancient trunks, and everywhere, _everywhere_ there is athelas.

Of course he's far from the only one who notices, though he seems to be the only one who knows the source. The guards and soldiers whispered to one another, and he doesn't wonder why – it has been many a century since any manner of _good_ surprise has been found in the forest.

And yet it is more than that, more merely than flowers and sunlight. Even on the morning they face Dol Guldur, the air feels…lighter, somehow.

His first sight of the fortress itself sours his stomach. He ought to have torn it down long before the Necromancer had settled in it, but it was beyond his borders, and for far too long, all that was beyond his borders had seemed none of his concern.

But no more.

And yet, he sees vines are growing on the old walls, again, living vines, the green vivid against the worn grey stone. There is the scent of decay, and of spider, but the vines grow, and seemingly thrive.

"Captain Faelon, Captain Sadronniel, take the western walls," he orders. "Captain Menelwen and I will take the east."

Their torches ignite with a _whoosh_ and sudden burst of flame, the heat of them hitting his face like a solid force. Those unfortunate enough to bear the buckets of pitch move forward, guarded on all sides by bowmen.

The ruins are eerily quiet as they creep into them, but it isn't a watchful quiet – Tauriel is not here, which is almost a disappointment. She would have liked to witness it, after pushing for it for so long.

It doesn't take long at all for them to find the master nest, and the sight of it gives even Thranduil pause. The webs in the forest can be thick, but nothing like this; these stretch hundreds of feet in the air, some as solid as walls, filled with wrapped lumps that are likely orc corpses.

It's sickening, and anymore, it takes a great deal to sicken him. And buckets aren't going to be efficient. Not at all.

"Archers, forward," he orders. "Dip your arrows in the pitch and ignite them. I want a line across the path, and another before it. I do not know what we might flush out, but you are our first defense."

They move as ordered, with fluid Elven grace, and those behind them ready blades and bows. In a nest this size, several adults might well have survived the winter.

The line of arrows ignites, one by one, flickering bright. The scent of the burning pitch is much more pleasant than the decay wafting from the webs – which is only going to get worse once the arrows fly.

"Fire," he commands, knowing it's best to get this over with.

Dozens of flames trail overhead, striking all along the nearest web – the only one that can be reached just yet. It goes up like a torch itself, desiccated as it is by the dry, frigid winter air, and the heat of it nearly makes him grimace. Thranduil has no love of fire, nor is he likely to ever again, but he concedes that it has its uses – even if the stench of the burning web is so potent he can taste it.

Behind it, he can hear the wakened hatchlings screeching – hundreds of them. Even if there are no adults, his people will have their work cut out for them.

Naturally, they cannot be so lucky. The biggest spider he has ever seen in his life comes bursting through the flaming web, and doesn't even seem to feel the volley of arrows that find homes in its underbelly. The sound it lets out is so loud it's very nearly deafening, and he is not the only one who flinches – it reminds him a little too much of a Nazgûl's cry.

Another volley of arrows looses before he can give the order – aflame this time, and while a few sail beyond the foul thing, most find their mark.

It screeches again, lumbering toward them, and Thranduil realizes they have to take out its legs or it will not go down. His swords whisper as he draws them, adrenaline surging through him. This isn't precisely battle, but it's near enough, and it makes him feel, for the first time in what seems like forever, _alive_. The battle before Erebor had been very different, his people's involvement the result of his selfishness and nothing more, but this, _this_ is good, is _pure_.

He neatly severs a foreleg, and swipes off one toxic mandible when the thing lurches downward. He'd swear its shrieking nearly ruptures his eardrums, but someone takes out its other foreleg, and down its front crashes, the stink of its burning hide nearly intolerable.

The thing is simply too fat for arrows to kill it; someone is going to have to slash its belly from beneath, and pray they don't get stung in the process.

At his height, he's hardly an ideal candidate, but he won't ask anyone else to risk their life in such a manner. Drawing a deep breath, he dives and rolls, bringing both his blades up to slash at the creature's leathery hide. Black, stinking blood sprays from the wound, though mercifully, most of it misses him.

What does _not_ miss, however, is the stinger, which stabs into his left thigh so hard it actually snaps off the spider's body, sending an instantaneous wave of burning agony all through him.

How he doesn't scream, he never will know. He manages to roll clear of the thing before it can crush him, but only barely. He wrenches the stinger out, but he knows it might already be too late – a spider of that size would have enough venom to kill ten Elves, not one. And indeed his vision is already blurring, his consciousness tunneling into darkness. He's dimly aware of hands grabbing him, dragging him away, and then there is nothing.

* * *

Menelwen curses as they drag the King away. King he might be, but that was amazingly stupid – it is always the smaller guards who kill the spiders from beneath, precisely because taller Elves are at greater risk of being stung. She ought to see to him, but she can't; while that might have been the only adult spider, there are still hundreds of spawn to be dealt with. The healers will have to tend him, and hope to Eru he didn't just get himself killed.

* * *

Greenwood, _the Elf thinks. He knows the name, though he doesn't know how or why. It's not important – there is something important_ in _it – but what and why still escape him._

 _No matter. Perhaps, by the time he arrives, he will know._

* * *

 _Thranduil dreams, incoherent and vague and filled with pain. He dreams of Tauriel._

 _She was so small when first he saw her, a tiny thing standing guard over her mother's corpse with a blade far too big for her, her hair a fiery tangle, her face and clothes splashed and smeared with blood both red and black. Overlaying the heartbreak in her green eyes is a burning ferocity, and she meets his gaze squarely even as her chin trembles. So small, and yet so very, very strong._

 _She didn't answer, when first he asked her name – her throat worked, but no sound emerged. A faint purples mark, shaped like a handprint, explained it; someone had tried to throttle her – someone whose corpse, he suspected, he would find nearby._

 _She wouldn't go near any of the others in his party, and hesitated even when he beckoned her, looking instead at the ruin of her mother's body. Eventually she took his hand, and he led her away from the ashes of her entire world._

 _He took her to the healers, who tended her hurts, bathed her, and handed her back to him. It worried him that she didn't cry, until it occurred to him that she didn't feel safe doing so. On a whim, he took her to Legolas, who knew all too well what it was like to lose a mother._

 _"You are safe here, little one," he said, as he carried her through the halls. "No harm will come to you. My son has also lost his mother. He will help you."_

 _She still couldn't speak, but he felt her nod against his shoulder. She trusted him already, and when he looked at her green eyes, too big in her small face, he thought that he would die before he betrayed that trust._

 _He dreams of her eyes that night, that wonderful night before the wretched morning, looking at him with such light and reverence and_ innocence _, dreams of the exact moment he watched that innocence crack, watched the light fade. It hadn't gone out, but after that it was so cold and sharp, a knife of ice. So long has he spent trying to forget, but Elven memories are perfect; always he will see that look, that_ betrayal. _He'd shattered her trust, and all because he was afraid – afraid of what it was to_ feel _again._

 _She is in the forest still, but out of his reach, and oh, how he wants to grab her, to hold her and beg forgiveness he doesn't deserve. He wants her warmth, the woodsy smell of her, the softness of her flaming hair, wants it so much it hurts as much as his wound._

 _Tauriel, Tauriel…what is the point of all he is doing, if he must forever do it alone? He does not wish to Fade, and yet he fears that when he wakes,_ if _he wakes, he will._

 _"Oh no, you do not."_

 _The voice isn't his, but he cannot place it. A woman's, smoky and rich._

 _"I have plans for you, Thranduil Oropherion. You are not allowed to die and unmake them."_

 _Who are you, he thinks, but cannot ask._

 _"One who has already done much to heal the damage you have caused. I will not allow you to die before my work is through. Your song has not yet ended, nor has your part to play. You will understand, in time."_

* * *

When Thranduil wakes, there is no pain, but only because he has been dosed with a massive amount of poppy. It takes him a moment to realize he is outside – a fire crackles to his left, the only light against the blackness of the night. He cannot have been unconscious for very long, or they would be back at the halls. Someone has removed his armor, and he's wrapped in many cloaks, with several folded beneath his head as a pillow. His mouth is dry as ashes – a side effect of the poppy – and his leg itches terribly.

"My lord, thank Eru you are awake." It's Menelwen's voice, unspeakably relieved. Her pale face and grey eyes swim into view, though his vision is still blurred. "We thought you dead at first, and then we thought you would never wake. Such a sting should have killed a troll."

He rather _wishes_ it had killed him. "Lucky," he croaks.

She and Captain Faelon help him sit so he can drink some water. "Status?" he rasps.

"Burned, all of them," Faelon says jubilantly. "We will have to send a patrol back in a fortnight or so, just to be sure, but I doubt anything will help rise from those ashes."

"Good." Thranduil wishes he could say more, but it isn't as if he could find the words even if his voice would allow it. It _is_ good.

"The Valar must truly favor you, my lord," Menelwen says, and he goes cold. Yes, it _would_ take a Vala to heal him from such a wound. He thinks of the flowers, of how Tauriel can track him unobserved, when by all rights that should be impossible.

 _Yavanna_.

The thought fills him with dread. Those directly touched by the Valar rarely come to happy endings. His forest is already the better for it, and his people, but Thranduil himself? He doubts it.

At least Tauriel seems to have benefited from it. She still has her home, yet she is free. He can take comfort in that, if nothing else.

Even seated, his head is spinning. He's always hated poppy, the way it slows and dulls the senses, but he's not fool enough to go without, after a wound like that. Even with Yavanna's aid, he knows already that he'll be all but useless for weeks to come.

Which is a crying shame. He had hoped to search the woods for more traces of Tauriel, though he doubts he will find any. That single hair is likely all he will have, but it is far better than nothing.

And he will need it, when he is home. Eru knows he has more letters to write.

* * *

Yavanna reminds herself that the Eldar are long-lived, and that her work will not come to fruition overnight. Still, peril approaches; Thranduil will have need of Tauriel's aid soon enough, and Tauriel is not yet ready to give it. Just now, she could easily flee out into the wide world – could, and will, as things currently stand.

Her father is looking for her. And Eru help them if he finds her.

In that, Yavanna cannot interfere. She's doing more than she ought already, but Thranduil made such a mess of what would have been wonderful for them both, and she could not bear to see Tauriel suffer so.

Yavanna is not, however, Eru; her foresight is imperfect. As a result, she didn't see Tauriel's father's involvement at all. But then, even with that, perhaps her interference is a good thing. Had Tauriel still been in the halls and still so wounded in heart and fëa, it would have been a disaster, for Thranduil would not have let her leave.

Not once he knew who her father _is_.

For now, all Yavanna can do is watch the pair of them – Tauriel, who sleeps peacefully, and Thranduil, who does not. The Valar are not supposed to play favorites, but she really is rather irritated with him. He threw something lovely badly off course, and now, when Tauriel's father finds them, Yavanna fears many will suffer for it.

The pair of them need to meet, if only briefly. A lengthy meeting would prove disastrous, but they need to see, with their own eyes, how the other has changed – especially Thranduil. Tauriel must know with certainty that he's not longer the cold creature who broke her heart. It will not make her _forgive_ him – it's far too soon for that – but it is a step in the right direction. Actual forgiveness might well take centuries, but she must be able to at least tolerate him without wanting to throttle him.

Yes, Yavanna thinks, when next Thranduil wanders into the woods alone, he will meet with Tauriel, and they will see what happens. She won't lie – she laughed a little at Tauriel's solution to what she thought was Thranduil's intention to take his own life. Simple, yet effective. At least Yavanna made sure he had some athelas for his headache the next day.

* * *

Thranduil's convalescence is every bit as aggravating as he expects. He is used to being busy from dawn until dusk, but for another fortnight, he can do little save deal with paperwork and the Council. The healers have been adamant that he stay off his leg as much as possible, and he knows he would do be a fool to ignore them.

His councilors – and everyone else – tiptoe around him, for his mood is foul, and he's every bit as irascible as his old self. As soon as the healers give approval, he takes the elk and rides out into the forest.

The first thing that strikes him is how very clear the air is – clear, and pure. He hasn't felt it thus in centuries. It's warm, too; summer is well on the way, and the warmth of the sun draws out the scent of clean earth.

The canopy above is greener than normal, too, and as he rides deeper into the trees, he finds many of them wound about with creeping vines dotted with small, starry flowers of all colors. He's never seen the plant before, and he has no idea what it is.

Tauriel, he is sure, will not have ventured this close to the halls yet – if he wants to find any lingering sign of her, he must go further. Of course, finding anything is likely a fool's hope; the forest is vast, and she has no reason to linger so near the path. Still, she's done much work along it, and there is always a chance he'll find another hair, so that the one in his desk is not lonely.

There are more flowers, so many more, even well off the path. Can he safely call his forest the Greenwood again? Certainly it cannot accurately be called _Mirkwood_ anymore. Perhaps it needs a new name, if he can but find one.

He's so distracted by the thought that he has no sensation of being watched – he has no idea he isn't alone until a branch comes crashing down right across the path, spooking the elk into staggering backward.

It spooks Thranduil, too, right up until he hears the cursing. His heart lurches, eyes widening – he knows that voice, and never thought he would hear it again.

Tauriel emerges from the wreck, scratched and dusty, her red hair filled with leaves. Still she swears, until she looks up and catches sight of him. _Then_ she freezes, her eyes huge in her sun-browned face.

"Namo mae'n," she sighs.

* * *

Of all the ill luck in the world – Tauriel's never yet had a branch give out under her, and one that large certainly shouldn't have. She stares at Thranduil, who stares at her, and looks as though he's seeing a ghost.

He looks…well, actually, he looks rather terrible, as though he's been ill. His cheekbones are too sharp, his eyes ringed with faint shadows. Eldar do not sicken like other races; only some manner of poison could have done this. Perhaps she missed a spider after all, and he found it – or it found him.

" _Tauriel_ ," he breathes, her name like a prayer, and it's all she can do not to roll her eyes. The sound of his voice no longer enrages her, but it _is_ irritating. Now that he knows she's here, she's going to have to move to the other end of the blasted forest.

"Yes, that is my name," she says flatly. "What are you _doing_ out here, Thranduil? The spring work is done. Go back to the halls where you belong." Of course, of _course_ he would take to venturing forth exactly when she doesn't want him to.

"You – you've seen that?" he asks, and there's something hopeful and almost hesitant in his voice.

"I've watched you all," she says, and then, because she simply can't help it, she arches an eyebrow and adds, "You've provided ample entertainment, and I thank you for it, but do not presume to rise above your station. You are a king, of haughty Sindar stock, and your place is within the halls, not this Silvan forest. It was ours before it was yours. Return to your duties, King."

He flinches as though she's struck him, but she's surprised to find she can take little satisfaction from it. Before he can so much as open his mouth, she's gone, back up into the trees, racing through the boughs with the agility of a squirrel.

All right, perhaps that was a bit cruel, but he _does_ need reminding of his place. His father only became king because her people allowed it; for a thousand years, the forest had been theirs. Technically, the Sindar are interlopers. They might think themselves high and mighty, but without the leave of his 'lowly Silvan stock subjects ( _thank you, Thranduil_ ), he would be king of nothing. The thought comforts her, when she thinks of how he's been so ready to insult her heritage.

She feels a little twinge of guilt when she thinks on his expression, though. It's _very_ little, but it's there. Oh well. It isn't like he doesn't deserve it. Meanwhile, how she has to move, and move far, because she's certain, without knowing why, that he'll hunt her now.

Well. This is her forest, and she knows it far better than he does. He can hunt all he likes, but he won't catch her.

* * *

 _That_ , Yavanna thinks, could have gone better, though it could also have gone a great deal worse. At least Tauriel no longer hates Thranduil, even if she's not above slinging pointed barbs. It's a start, if not by much.

* * *

Thranduil feels like he's been stabbed in the chest, for of course he recognizes her words far too well. They're so very little different from what he said to her that wretched morning, calculated so efficiently to drive her away. And he understands now how much they must have hurt. He'd _meant_ them to hurt, but no, he had not considered just how effective it would be.

And it's worse, somehow, that there was so little malice in them. If anything, Tauriel sounded _amused._

It's no less than her due, he knows, and no less than he deserves, but that doesn't help. He sits still for a long while, and wonders how many times his cruel words made her cry.

Thranduil shudders, feeling as though he's going to be sick, and dismounts the elk almost without knowing what he's doing. He strides to the fallen branch, searching, and sure enough, there are three more hairs tangled in it.

He kneels, freeing them, and stares at the way they twine around his fingers like strands of liquid fire. His throat closes and his eyes burn, but he can't weep, no matter how much he wishes he could.

He's known all along that he hurt her terribly, but not until now has he given real thought as to just _how_ terribly. And she had none to confide in, none to share her burden. Tauriel, so social and loving a creature, had been alone. It's little wonder she had gone so cold; she'd had no other choice.

And she'd spent all this time believing he'd wished her to leave. What else was she wrong about, that he has never given her cause to believe otherwise?

 _"Do you really wish to know, Thranduil Oropherion?"_

 _Yavanna._

In truth, no, he doesn't. He doesn't think he can bear any more pain, but he deserves it as punishment. And he can't imagine that knowledge is worse than what his imagination can concoct.

"Yes," he whispers aloud, still staring at those three hairs.

 _"She believes that everything you said and did that night was a lie calculated to get her into your bed, because you knew she would never simply allow herself to be used. She believes that you think her so worthless that you did not care that it would break her heart."_

Thranduil thinks he can pinpoint the moment his own shatters. Did she really think – but then, why would she not? He really _has_ never given her any evidence to the contrary.

And that, _that_ is finally enough to break him. For the first time in centuries, he finds himself weeping, hot and bitter. It is not wonder at all that she's hated him all this time – he'd had no idea, none at all, that she'd felt so very used and degraded. Tauriel, Tauriel who he loves – what has he _done_ to her?

His fingers clench around the hairs, and his tears are like poison. _Why did you not let me die of that? I deserve it._

 _"Because you are already proving you are not beyond redemption, little Thranduil. You have much left to do."_

Just now, he does not feel as though he can do anything.

* * *

Tauriel doesn't know what compels her to return, but compelled she is, and return she does, creeping silent along the boughs. And what she finds nearly shocks her into falling.

Thranduil kneels beside the fallen branch, several strands of her hair clenched in his hand, and he's – is he _crying_? He _is_. It's utterly silent, but she can smell the salt of his tears, and his shoulders shake almost imperceptibly.

Not so very long ago, she would have taken truly vicious satisfaction in the sight. Now, though…now she's merely stunned. She hadn't thought Thranduil capable of tears.

"I'm sorry, Tauriel," he whispers, and that almost makes her fall again, for surely he cannot know that she is here? No, she thinks, he doesn't know – he's speaking into the air.

It sobers her immensely. His words are a litany of apologies, sometimes indecipherable save for her name. Did her impulsive words really break him so very badly? She can't imagine that's the only reason. He looks and sounds…well, rather like she felt, in those first few weeks after that horrible mistake of a night.

She wants to feel satisfied, wants to be glad he suffers so, but she can't. She cannot bring herself to _pity_ him, because he really _does_ deserve it, but she takes no joy in it. All this time, she's wanted him to understand what he did to her, and it seems he understands now, with a vengeance.

"That night was real, all of it," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "The morning, that, _that_ was a lie, because I was guilty, and I was afraid, and I was so, so, _stupid_ , and it excuses nothing at all, but I did not set out to use you, Tauriel – not like that, not like _anything_ , because you are Tauriel, you were _my_ Tauriel and I am so, so, sorry. Le melin, Tauriel, though you will never know."

He means it, too; she can hear the ring of truth in every word, and his last sentence has the sound of a prayer, oft repeated.

Tauriel sits very, very still, shocked as she has not been since, well, that morning. He's right – it's no excuse, and it doesn't change the aftermath at all, and yet…she doesn't know what to _do_ with this, and especially not that last sentence. There's simply no way Thranduil actually loves her, but perhaps, in the grip of his guilt, he _thinks_ he does.

His odd, unwitting confession doesn't change things – the past twenty years are the past twenty years, and always will be – but she feels…lighter, somehow. Thranduil was still a bastard that morning, and has remained a bastard until very recently, but it's…nice…knowing that she was wrong about some things.

Maybe, in five hundred years or so, she might actually forgive him.

She feels like a voyeur, watching Thranduil in his agony, but she finds she can't leave. It's not that she revels in his suffering, for she doesn't; she just feels as though she should stay.

How strange it is, that they have both changed so much in little more than half a year. For Tauriel, it has been good; for Thranduil…well, she has no idea. Nor does she have any intent of lingering much longer. By nightfall, she will be far away.

* * *

Poor Thranduil. At least he's cleared up some misconceptions for Tauriel, who has food for thought. Yavanna's still got her work cut out for her, though.

What Tauriel says is "damn it" in Welsh. I can't find much in the way of cursing in Sindarin, but Sindarin is partly based on Welsh, so I cribbed it.


	7. The Calm Before the Storm

In which both Thranduil and Tauriel keep on truckin' (but only one of them enjoys it), Yavanna continues to meddle, and Tauriel's father gains a little more memory. (God help them all.)

* * *

When Thranduil returns to the halls, he is beyond drained.

For the first time in months, he sleeps deeply without the aid of wine, so worn out that if he dreams, he doesn't remember it.

He wakes with Tauriel's hair still twined in his fingers, and rises to carefully put the strands in the jar with the first. He feels strangely empty, like his entire being has been hollowed out, but he can't say that it's a _bad_ feeling. It is…neutral. Neutral, and strangely fragile, as though an errant breeze might shatter it.

Well. His forest is clear of spiders, Dol Guldur has been dealt with…what is he to do now? Sooner or later he will have to meet with Bard, and deal with Dain, but he is not ready for them, and with the shambles of both their kingdoms still to be repaired, he doubts they are, either. That can wait.

Meanwhile, he must find some way of distracting himself, or he will go mad.

* * *

It only takes Tauriel five days to reach the eastern edge of the forest, and then she rests.

Nothing and no one lies out here, so very far from the halls. Most of the Woodland Realm's inhabitants live west of the halls, for there are no roads out of the eastern side, and no opportunities for trade. There are a few recluses that live in the forests' interior, but this close to the edge, Tauriel has the run of the place. Even the patrols rarely come here; they do a sweep every so often in search of spiders, but there's otherwise very little to see.

She builds herself a proper little house among the boughs of a huge beech tree, the walls woven of sticks, the roof a sold construction of bark – for it does still rain in spring and summer sometimes, and she would rather her blankets and food stay dry.

For now, she's mostly eating plants, for she won't hunt until the fawns and foals have grown. She builds a little open-air platform beside the house, and plants herself an aerial garden.

She has a home now.

True, her house is rather ramshackle: it's wrapped the whole way around the tree, the floor somewhat uneven, and only the western side – where the wind blows hardest – has a proper wall. She _could_ fortify it, and winter here, but she would rather stay with Beorn, if he will have her again. Out here, when all the forest is asleep, she would likely get lonely.

Her bed is made of leaves, with her cloak spread atop them. Not that she feels much need to sleep, for there is far too much to do. There are still old webs to clear, and she's started cutting down the dead trees when she finds them.

That is something of an ordeal. The forest is ancient, after all, and the trees are huge, and she is but one person with an axe. Tauriel had thought her hands were tough, but they're a mass of blisters now, and she has to wrap them in rags to keep going.

"I'm not doing this to hurt you," she tells the forest, grunting as she swings the axe. Her hair is fully of wood chips, and there is a pile nearly to her knees around her. "These trees are dead. I merely want to clear some space." She's less than a quarter of a way through this one, and estimates it will take at least another five days. The sweet scent of freshly-cut wood hangs heavy in the warm air. Perhaps it's time for lunch.

She won't hunt, but she _will_ fish, setting a trap of wooden slats in the creek near the base of her treehouse. At least on this side of the halls there's water that isn't enchanted – it's pure and icy cold, and has provided her with a number of trout she's smoked and wrapped in leaves. She brought two whole fish with her today, knowing what sort of appetite all this chopping can bring.

As she eats, she finds herself thinking of Erebor, and of Dale. She's half tempted to visit before winter, even if she doesn't let anyone know she's there, because she'd like to see they're getting on. She finally _can_ think of it without a hole tearing in her heart; yes, it's where Kili died, but he wouldn't want her to regard it with horror forever. It's his ancestral homeland, and she knows what wherever he is now, he's happy to have seen it.

"I wish we could talk, Kili," she says. "Not that I have a great deal to say, but I would know what you are doing, if I could."

A thought strikes her. She _does_ need to go to Erebor, because there is someone she needs to see. Kili's mother needs his runestone, and Tauriel would offer her comfort, if such a thing is even possible. It might not be, but Tauriel has to try.

Once she's finished with this blasted tree, she'll go. It will take her weeks to get there, for she'll have to avoid the border patrols, but she will see Kili's mother, and give her all that she can.

And Thranduil…Tauriel thinks on their last meeting, and finds herself vaguely angry. Oh, finding out she was wrong about a few things is a great relief, and she's glad he actually understands, more or less, what he put her through, but how _dare_ he, after everything, believe he loves her? _How dare he?_ It's a truly odd way for his guilt to manifest, and frankly it's quite insulting. If he truly loved her, he wouldn't have let her suffer for twenty years. He would have said _something_ , even if it was only a very stilted apology.

No, he doesn't love her, and she hopes he gets over that delusion soon, because honestly, the thought makes her vaguely sick. If he can think he loves her, yet treat her like _that_ …terrible as it is, it really makes her wonder about his marriage, and just how happy the Queen actually could have been. With Thranduil's warped definition of love, Eru knows what she went through.

* * *

Thranduil does not Fade.

It surprises him, actually, but he doesn't. He goes about his duties ( _return to your duties, King_ ), and if he never smiles…well, his son is gone. He doubts anyone blames him.

While he hasn't actively sent anyone looking for Tauriel, he's expanded the scope and frequency of the patrols. Perhaps someone might find sign of her, if not Tauriel herself. Thranduil will take anything he can get.

He's heard nothing further from Yavanna, but that's more of a relief than anything else. He has enough to be troubled by as it is, for in a fortnight's time he must make for Dale, to meet with Bard and Dain.

He would rather drown himself.

Bard on his own is fine; he's remarkably sensible for an Edain, and brave, but Dain…no. he might not be as unwelcome a neighbor as Oakenshield, but that isn't saying much.

And while Thranduil will not be doing this alone, he will have neither of the two he would most want with him. Tauriel clearly has a way with Dwarves, and while Legolas does not, he at least knows how to joke, and he lacks his father's temper.

But both of them are gone now, and while Legolas will someday return, it will likely not be for decades.

 _Eru, let him be safe._

Tauriel is in the forest, and without the spiders, she faces little in the way of peril. Legolas, however, could be anywhere, facing any _thing_ , and Thranduil can hardly bear the thought.

He lies now on his bed, watching the hateful stars, the tiny jar containing Tauriel's hair on the pillow beside him. The scent of thyme and oak wafts in on the warm breeze, and he wishes, vaguely, that he was dead.

Is this was Tauriel felt for twenty years? Did she feel so worthless, so unloved? He knows the answer, much as he doesn't want to, and it only hurts him all the worse. To think that she suffered so much right under his nose, and he never knew it…it's times like this that he wishes Yavanna had let him die. Legolas might not _want_ to be King, but he'd be a better king than Thranduil, who truly is worthless and unloved, even by his own son.

That's his fault, too, for he's pushed the boy away for centuries. He's feared love, even his son's, and now like where it has them both: Legolas wanders in self-imposed exile, and Thranduil is alone.

 _"You are not alone, little Thranduil. I walk with you, as I walk with Tauriel."_

"You are terrible company," he says flatly. "Is my continued existence your idea of punishment?"

 _"You punish yourself, little Thranduil, for you know now just how many wrongs you have done, but you are changing. As King, no longer do you sit complacent. As_ Thranduil… _you have much work ahead of you."_

" _Why?_ " he asks, staring at the stars, turning the bottle in his fingers. "As _Thranduil_ I have nothing."

 _"That will not always be the case, little one. You are not mortal – you have no need to be so short-sighted. Your son will return to you, in the fullness of time, and you will see Tauriel again. You must be prepared for both."_

Legolas he thinks he can face, for he has done much in his son's absence – the boy will not return to a father who has done nothing but sit and brood. But Tauriel…how can he face _her_ , with all that he knows now? What right has he to even _look_ upon her?

 _"_ Right _has nothing to do with it, little Thranduil. Before the summer's end, you are going to have a very large problem – as will Tauriel. Until it is resolved, it will not be safe for her to lurk in the forest. You must be able to convince her to return to your halls."_

Thranduil snorts. "If the forest is unsafe, she will simply leave. I cannot imagine anything inducing her to stay _here_."

Yavanna's next words chill him. _"Leaving will not give her safety. She will be hunted wherever she goes. This she must confront, but she can only safely do that here. I will bring Tauriel home, in time. Whether she_ stays _is up to you."_

* * *

The moonlight is bright enough that Tauriel chops well through the night, until her abused hands can take it no longer. The whole time she's mentally prepared herself for the thought of leaving her forest, and she's glad she has a few more days to keep doing so.

For the thought is strangely frightening. She doesn't know _why_ – there is little peril to be found along the way, and certainly nothing she can't handle. Now it's something she has to force herself to do, for she can't afford to become mentally trapped. The Greenwood is her home, her sanctuary, but she cannot let it become her prison.

Five days. Five days, and then she will go. She'll see the progress of Dale and Erebor, she'll meet with Lady Dís, and then she'll return him, simple as that. She'll prove to herself that she has nothing to fear by leaving.

* * *

Tauriel, Tauriel – _the name repeats in the Elf's mind, though it as yet has no meaning. Tauriel is who he must seek, though the why still eludes him. She is important – this he knows, even if he does not know why or how. Perhaps he will remember when he finds her._

 _Perhaps, then, he will remember his own name._

* * *

Yavanna watches all, and sighs. She had hoped Tauriel would have more time to heal, but if things keep on as they are, it will all come to a head in about three weeks' time. Neither Tauriel nor Thranduil are in any way ready for it, and she wonders if she dares to divert the poor girl's father for a while. With his mind as it is, it won't be hard.

"You meddle too much already, my love," Aulë says, and that's a bit rich, coming from the only Vala who dared craft _sentient life_ before Ilúvatar woke the Elves. "It will only end badly if you try to stave this off."

"But they are not ready," Yavanna sighs. "Tauriel has made such progress, but it's far too soon for her to return to the halls. Even the Eldar cannot walk too soon on a broken limb too newly set, and the wounds on her fëa could so easily rip open anew if she were shut away underground anywhere, let alone with Thranduil."

"What of Thranduil himself?"

"Thranduil is consumed by guilt and shame. Having Tauriel near might be a balm, or it might be a disaster. If she begins to sicken away from the starlight, he will likely Fade."

Aulë frowns. "If it becomes so terrible, send her to Erebor," he says. "Dain will take her in. She will be as safe within the mountain as she would be in Thranduil's halls. Still she would be underground, but she would be free of him."

Yavanna arches an eyebrow. "Would he?"

"He would if I told him to. Honestly, I cannot believe her wretched father is still _alive_. With his wits so lacking, he should have run afoul of an orc pack an age ago." Her husband sounds rather put out that he hasn't.

"Ilúvatar must be saving him for some purpose." She hopes it's as good one, because the damned Elf is going to cause a great deal of heartache very soon.

If only Tauriel's mother had not been so young and foolish. Tauriel had come about as the result of a midsummer festival and far too much wine, combined with a handsome stranger in temporary possession of most of his faculties. Apparently her mother had been drunk enough to think begetting a child with a stranger was a _fantastic_ idea, and a year later there was a small Tauriel, with her grandmother's hair, her mother's eyes and father's temperament, though thankfully more sense than both of them combined.

If it had stayed at that, he father would never have known of her existence, but he passed through again some five years later, and the cat, as the Edain put it, was out of the bag. Her mother had driven him off, and in his madness he'd forgotten about her entirely for over six hundred years.

But he remembers now, or he's starting to, damn him.

Well. If things become too dire, she may have to visit Tauriel in person, not just in spirit. She's not about to let the poor girl get broken all over again. If she breaks, so will Thranduil, and with Legolas away, so will the Woodland Realm.

"I could tell Dain to give him a good kick," Aulë offers. "He is to visit Erebor in a fortnight, is he not?"

"Tempting as that is, I doubt it will help anything. Thranduil is receiving enough punishment from himself." In truth, Yavanna is wondering if that alone will be enough to break him. Yes, he deserves it, but he soon won't be able to afford to. No one will.

* * *

Yeah, this is shaping up to be a clusterfuck of gigantic proportions. Next up, Tauriel and Thranduil independently visit Erebor (and meet again), and Tauriel's daddy finally finds them both (and nobody is happy about it).

Guest: Oh, they can't actually go back to the way they _were_ ever again, but something will happen between them eventually. It'll just be a lot more screwed-up, because they're both pretty screwed-up themselves.


	8. The Rising of the Storm

In which Thranduil and Tauriel head for Erebor, and meet with the one who is going to be a massive, massive thorn in both their sides.

* * *

The tree falls midmorning of the fifth day, landing with a very satisfying crash. Tauriel decides to leave it where it is, and goes for a quick, icy bath in the brook.

All her things, such as they are, are packed; spare clothes are rolled up into her blanket, and her pockets are filled with what food she can carry. Hopefully they'll get a least one good rain while she's away, or her platform garden will suffer.

She sets off into the sunshine for now, headed due north. If she keeps on this way for the next two days, she won't risk running into any patrols, so she needn't worry about lighting fires at night. No one will find her.

Perhaps, now that the spiders are gone, more people will move out here. She hopes that they don't, or at least, not for a long while. She likes having the majesty of the ancient trees all to herself.

And they _are_ majestic, here at the center of the forest, some are the size of towers, wound about with new ivy and trailing moss. Though there is no path, the canopy was so heavy for so long that there is little undergrowth to impede her way – although strangely, it seems to have thinned itself a little without her interference, for the ground is dappled with bright spots of sunshine.

She still can't reconcile just how much _life_ there suddenly is, after the forest was so sick for so very long. Clearly, Yavanna has been as busy as Tauriel, who now wonders why the Vala had chosen now to step in, when the forest has been poisoned for so long. Something else must have changed, something Tauriel is as yet unaware of.

Whatever it is, she's grateful for it. She couldn't have done nearly as much on her own, or as well.

* * *

Though Thranduil would rather pull all his teeth out, he makes arrangements for a state visit to Dale and Erebor.

Gifts are necessary, and easy enough for Bard and his people: summer though it is, they'll need more supplies to see them through until the harvest, but what in Eru's name can he give Dáin? He has no idea, but he must think of _something_. The Dwarf-king will not appreciate anything of Elven crafting. Perhaps he too would appreciate an addition to his larder, as his people have likely been eating the same things all winter. Even Dwarves can only eat so much _cram_ , and hunting has likely been sparse in the former Desolation. Animals learned to avoid it long ago, and will be slow to return.

Part of him wonders why he bothers. His heart is too heavy for him to care much about alliances, and every time it lifts, he thinks of Tauriel's words, and Yavanna's. He does not _deserve_ a lighter heart, and something in him will not allow him to have one. Yavanna is right; he punishes himself more effectively than anyone else could. He must learn to ease away from that for the good of his people. A broken King is of no use to anyone, including himself.

He leaves most of the packing to his servants, but puts two of Tauriel's hairs into a second glass bottle, to take with him on their trip – if something happens to it, he will still have the other two safe in his desk. That done, he sits to write her a letter.

 _Tauriel,_

 _We depart for Dale in two days' time, and I wish you were here. The Dwarves might well listen to you as they never would to me, and I know that Bard's children will be asking after you. At least I can tell them that you live, and that you are happy in your work. I hope that someday you can visit them, and let them see you for themselves._

 _The changes in the forest no doubt you have seen already, so of them I will say little. This autumn, after the harvest but before the snow flies, we will begin dismantling Dol Guldur. It might take decades, but I will leave not even the foundation of that accursed place standing._

 _I do not know when you will find it, but I wish I could see your eyes when you do. I am afraid that once all is finished, the guards will find their jobs very dull, and I no longer have a captain of your caliber to keep them in line. Faelon, Menelwen, and Sadronniel are all capable, but they are not you – as even they will admit._

 _How I wish you would come home, even as I dread the very thought of seeing you again. I told Yavanna I have no right to even look upon you, and even the thought of your face pains me, and yet I crave it. I cannot say this enough, Tauriel, though I have no doubt you are sick of hearing it: I would give anything to undo that wretched morning. I would offer up my fëa, if only I could take back those terrible words, and erase the last twenty years._

 _Gi melin, Tauriel, though you will never know._

* * *

The journey is rather more fun than Tauriel expected – and swifter, two. In spite of five days of hard labor, she finds she needs little rest.

"What will I say to your mother, Kili?" she asks, fording a small stream. The icy water numbs her feet. "I cannot begin to imagine what it is like, losing a child, and she has lost not only you, but also your brother and _her_ brother."

Tauriel remembers losing her mother, but she was very young; it's not the same at all. "Maybe she'll hate me, but I can give her your runestone, at the very least. And I would see her once, for myself, even if she never wishes to see me again. She probably would have hated the idea of an Elf as a daughter-by-marriage. At least I have no family we could have scandalized.

Although honestly, given that she'd herself been born out of wedlock, her mother might not have minded. For an unmarried elleth to have a child was vanishingly rare, and Tauriel wonders what her mother had been like – apart from even more impulsive than her daughter, apparently. Even Tauriel wouldn't have begat a child before she and Kili were wed.

She truly had to wonder about her mother. To take a lover was not unusual, even if it also wasn't spoken of in public, but Eldar are not like Edain, who restrict themselves because of how very easily they conceive when they don't want to; an elleth makes a conscious choice to beget a child. Tauriel's existence is no accident. Either her mother decided to drunkenly wed some stranger, or she wanted a child without the hassle of a husband. Either way, she'd been an unusual elleth, who might not have minded her daughter marrying a Dwarf.

* * *

Thranduil leaves the halls with a heavy heart, though the sunlight lifts it somewhat. The journey is only a matter of days, and he wishes it were longer, for thought of Dáin only makes his heart sink further.

And yet, he thinks, as they ride out under the open blue sky beyond the forest's edge, the Dwarf-king returned Anameleth's jewels to him. He had no reason at all to spare a messenger to do such a thing, and yet he did it anyway. Thranduil hopes that is a good sign. Certainly, it is unlikely to be a _bad_ one.

* * *

Dáin can't deny that he's curious. He has no real wish to deal with the blasted sprite, and yet he can't forget the look in Thranduil's eyes as he held that dying girl. That sort of desperation only comes from love, and that is a thing that neither Dáin nor any other Dwarf would have thought him capable of.

Clearly, that love hadn't been returned, either, if the lass had been so set on Kili. For all the Elves like to think themselves above the rest of the world's mere mortals, they can get themselves embroiled in some fine messes of their own.

So he'd sent the Elven king his jewels, figuring they'd give him some comfort and get them out of the way. And as much as Dáin doesn't want to admit it, they'd have been buggered without the Elven army during the battle; sending those jewels was payment, of a sort. He'd rather not owe Thranduil any more debts than he had to.

At least the sprite and his people would be camping outside Dale, and not be in his hair for more than a few hours. Thranduil seems to get on with Bard well enough, and Bard is welcome to him. So many mortal Men have some inexplicable fascination with Elves that the whole arrangement ought to work just fine.

Still, Dáin can't help a niggling sense of foreboding. It's probably nothing, but he'll keep a weather eye out nonetheless.

* * *

Dale, Thranduil finds, is much improved – so much so that at first glance, one wouldn't guess that a battle had happened at all. Its banners and walls are mended quite skillfully, as are its houses, its people healthy and sun-browned. While he has never thought a great deal of Edain as a race, even he has to admire depth of their resilience.

Children watch in awe as they pass, either peering around their mother's skirts, or from lofty vantage points on various roofs. The adults are unreservedly pleased to see them, too, and he has to hand them this as well: they are not reserved or chary with their gratitude. The idea of such blatant openness is wholly alien to him, and yet he finds his heart lifting a little at the sight of them.

Bard, looking rather uncomfortable in formal robes of blue velvet, greets Thranduil just inside the gate. He seems a little careworn – but then, he had never expected to rule anything, let alone an entire city. Likely he's been making it up as he goes along. Well, the food will make his life easier, at least.

"King Thranduil," he says, inclining his head. "Welcome to Dale."

* * *

When Tauriel reaches the edge of the forest, she hesitates.

She doesn't know why; the sky is blue, the sun fierce and hot, and the scent of summer, of warm earth and baked grasses, hangs tempting in the air. She has to force herself to step beyond the border ( _her_ border), and make for the glittering line of the River Running's main forest tributary.

Anxiety flutters in her abdomen, but it eases some as she walks, the grass tickling her ankles. There is nothing for her to fear, no reason to be wary, nothing that can harm her, and yet she's nervous. Hopefully that will ease, or this journey will be no fun at all.

* * *

Dale throws the Elven delegation as much of a feast as they can, on their limited resources, and Thranduil finds himself strangely heartened by it.

They eat under the open sky, while the sun sets red and gold in the west. While most of the food is preserved, there are fresh berries and cream, and the first offerings of the various gardens grown from precious seeds gifted the previous winter. And if there is one truly good thing about the Edain, it is their children.

Eldar have few children, and with difficulty, but the Edain seem to produce them by the score. Hundreds of them run about, playing games while their parents eat and talk, seemingly unaffected by the nightmare they endured less than a year ago. Their town burned in dragonfire, and it's likely that most of them witnessed death during the battle, yet now they chase one another over the grass, seemingly unconcerned by anything.

How he envies them.

Tomorrow he must meet with Dáin, though thankfully the Dwarf-king is willing to come to Dale, so that they might meet, as it were, on somewhat neutral ground. It was in everyone's best interest that no one get mortally offended by some small slight, and in Dale, they would both be guests.

It is fortunate, and yet he is nervous. Thranduil lacks Elrond's foresight; he has no way of knowing what strange ill approaches, but he's sure that there is one. He can't imagine what it is, and he doesn't want to find out, but it's coming, whatever it is, and even as he watches the children, he can't fully suppress the formless dread that curdles in his stomach.

But then, he thinks, perhaps it will interrupt this wretched conference. Perhaps he will not have to deal with Dáin for very long after all.

He glances at Bard, who is watching his youngest run about. Edain could be incredibly vulnerable, but especially their children. Mad though it would surely sound, Thranduil needs to warn him.

"The air is uneasy," he says, sipping wine – that he brought, naturally. "I know not the cause, but keep your city's children near. I lack the foresight of other Eldar, but something is coming."

Bard pales. "Another dragon? Orc?" he whispers.

Thranduil shakes his head. "No, nothing like that. I think it may not be your problem at all, but nevertheless, be wary."

Bard doesn't look at all happy to hear that, but thanks him anyway.

At least Tauriel is safe in the forest, and Legolas is far away. Whatever approaches will not threaten either of them.

* * *

Well, now Bard is beyond disturbed. He's never seen King Thranduil _worried_ before – not even when his army was massed outside Erebor.

But then, he's different in general. There's a sorrow to him now, that likely has a great deal to do with the absence of his son. The Prince survived the battle, but obviously must have decided to go abroad, and it's just as obviously affected his father deeply. It must not have been a happy parting.

The King's eyes keep traveling north, to Ravenhill, and Bard does think he knows the reason for that: the Elf-maid, Tauriel, apparently leapt to her death from it. He's kept that from the children, because they were so fond of her, but no doubt it troubles Thranduil deeply, having one of his people die by their own hand. Bard himself has been learning that to rule a people is to care for them like family, and losing even one is hard.

* * *

Thranduil does not sleep that night, for all he ought to. He also doesn't go to Ravenhill, though the temptation is very great.

Instead he sits outside his tent, and watches the stars, and wonders if he will ever feel whole again.

Coming here has reminded him starkly of his loss – of Legolas, of Tauriel, of so very many of his people, who perished for a box of soulless jewels. Yes, he has been actively working to better his kingdom, but how can he ever really atone for his betrayal? They died for his greed, and he can never change that. There are so many things he can never change…

He sits and stews until dawn, while the stars glitter mocking above him. When he rises to prepare for the day, the weight in his heart has returned, and his dread has grown. He almost wishes that whatever was coming would come already, and spare him the agony of waiting.

* * *

Thranduil, Dáin thinks, looks awful.

Not physically – Elves probably aren't capable of that – but there's an air of grief about him so strong it's palpable. Needling him in this state would just be cruel, and no fun at all.

They meet in a large tent pitched on a patch of green grass outside the city, the sides open to the air – the three leaders and all their assorted staff. Dáin left all the preparation to Balin, since he's the one who actually knows (and cares) about diplomacy. All Dáin himself has to do is show up and try not to throttle anyone.

While he might wind up tempted to throttle Thranduil soon, he knows already he won't be able to take pleasure in harassing him over it. And that just irritates him.

Poor Bard, on the other hand, just looks nervous. The man really doesn't know what he's doing, but he's a good sort, so Dáin hasn't taxed him over it. He means well, and he cares about his people, and he's the real reason Dáin has a kingdom at all, which means he's not to be unduly tormented.

Unfortunately, that's going to make for a very dull meeting.

He lets Balin get on with it, wishing he had a nice pitcher of ale, while the sun rises and the air warms. Poor Bard must have had quite a bit to drink last night, for he looks rather the worse for wear, his complexion tinged with grey and purple smudges beneath his eyes. His advisors really don't look much better, and that includes his son and eldest daughter; the lad in particular looks a bit green. Well, everyone's got to learn _that_ lesson sometime when they're young.

Mostly, Dáin watches Thranduil, who looks tense, insofar as it's possible to read him at all. Worried, even, which does nothing for Dáin's peace of mind. Certainly he doesn't look at all surprised when a guard staggers in, telling Bard they have a…visitor.

"He's an Elf, my lord," the lad said, "only, and begging your pardon, King Thranduil, there's something wrong with him. I think he might be mad. All he'll say is he wants his daughter, and he looks – well. You'll have to see for yourself how he looks."

Thranduil shuts his eyes a moment before he rises. "If you will excuse me – I believe I must see to this."

As if Dáin – or anyone – was likely to stay put. The entire lot of them rise to follow him, probably all as grateful for a reprieve as Dáin himself.

This, whatever else it is, is bound to get interesting.

* * *

In a way, Thranduil is almost relieved to find his dread is not without cause. _Almost_. He has his fears about who this Elf might be, and while he hopes he is wrong, he's sure he's not. He isn't nearly lucky enough to be wrong.

He follows the guard across the sun-baked grass, through an uneasy crowd of Edain, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

But even if he _is_ right, what can he do? He can hardly kill another Elf, but this Elf might have no qualms about killing _him_ – or anyone else. Must he become a Kinslayer in defense of his allies? Eru, he hopes not. He has committed many sins in his life, but at least _that_ is not among them.

He can practically taste the unease as he approaches the corner of the city's curtain-wall, sharp and dusty-bitter. Strangely, now that the source of his dread has arrived, he feels almost serene. Perhaps, if this is in fact who he suspects, he walks to his own death.

Thranduil cannot say he would mind.

He pushes through a crowd of unsettled Edain, and though he had suspected this, the actual sight shocks him to the core.

There, standing brazenly beneath the vivid sky, stands the last of the accursed sons of Fëanor.

Thranduil has never actually _seen_ Maglor, but his appearance is well-known, even if he hasn't inherited his mother's telltale hair. Though still tall and strong, he looks terrible – his black hair is a mass of knots, his clothing ruinous and filthy, and his right hand is twisted and misshapen with burn-scars – the Silmaril's doing, Thranduil realizes.

But his eyes…his eyes are the worst of it. Blue as the sky, their pupils are mere pinpricks, as though his madness consumed the rest, and yet there is not only madness in them: there's purpose there, however warped, and it is chilling.

Well. Thranduil can hardly ask the Edain or the Dwarves to deal with this, though in reality he bears no more responsibility for Maglor than they do.

"Why have you come here, Maglor?" he demands, not bothering to waste civility on a Kinslayer.

Maglor blinks at him. "Is that my name?" he asks, his voice so cracked and hoarse that Thranduil wonders how many centuries it's been since he used it.

" _Yes_ , Maglor, and you are unwelcome here." Incredibly, there's a sword on his belt, though he doesn't seem aware of it. Hopefully it will stay that way.

"Tauriel," Maglor says. "I seek Tauriel."

Thranduil feels Bard twitch behind him, and a sliver of ice works its way into his heart. He's long suspected Tauriel is some distant descendant of Fëanor, but surely, surely _Maglor_ cannot be her father…. "Tauriel is not here," he says. "She made for Lothlórien at the start of spring. I would tell you to seek her there, but Galadriel would not welcome you, either."

Something sly enters those mad blue eyes. "You lie, Elvenking," he says, raising his uninjured left hand. In it, twined around his fingers, are several long, fiery hairs. "I've been following her since she left your forest. She is here, Elven king, and you will bring me to her. I want my daughter."

Wait, _what_? Tauriel, _here_? _Why?_ Why, if she were going leave the forest at all, would she come to a place that held only pain for her?

"I know not where she is, Maglor," Thranduil says. "If she is here, I did not know of her coming. These people would welcome her, but they would not welcome _you_. Not if they knew who you were."

"Who _is_ he?" Dáin asks from his left.

"Maglor, son of Fëanor," Thranduil spits. "Kinslayer. I would ask you for his head, if I didn't think he would take your own first."

"Kinslayer," Maglor laughs. "Kinslayer, as though that is all I have ever done. You know nothing, Elvenking."

"Something tells me you know little more," Thranduil says dryly, "given that I had to tell you your own name."

He is at something of a loss. Even crippled, Maglor could probably beat him in a fight; trying to take him into custody will only get someone killed, and that someone wouldn't be Maglor. If only Bard had his bow….

"King Bard," he said, still looking at Maglor, "I would be much obliged if one of your archers would shoot this…creature."

Maglor's eyebrows go up. Before Bard can speak, he says, "What's this, Elvenking – Kinslaying by proxy? If you want me dead, do it yourself. Do not force the task on some _Edain_."

"Bard is lord of the land you stand upon, Maglor. The man killed a dragon – I would not antagonize him."

To his despair, Maglor draws his sword, the madness in his eyes rising. "He is welcome to try to kill _me_. I will fell you both, if you do not bring me my daughter."

"Daughter?"

No. _No_.

Wretched girl, _why_ has she left her forest? Much as he doesn't want to turn his back on Maglor, turn Thranduil does.

Tauriel, sun-browned, wild-haired, and barefoot, stands not far away, staring at the Elf who sired her. Her expression is almost impossible to read.

Before he can speak – before _anyone_ can speak – she marches across the grass, halts before her father – and punches him.

Hard.

Thranduil should really know better than to think things can't get worse.

* * *

OH SNAP. Poor…everyone. Including Maglor. Tauriel hits hard.


	9. Trouble Brews

In which Tauriel has some revelations (and is freaked right the fuck out), Thranduil is conflicted (and a touch creepy), and Maglor is…Maglor. There's rather more dark humor than I had anticipated.

* * *

Shocked silence follows Tauriel's blow to her father's face, and it only grows more shocked when she turns and slugs Thranduil, too. It's so unexpected that he actually staggers, touching his aching jaw.

"Well, that's one thing off my list," she says, turning back to Maglor. " _That_ was a gift from Naneth," she adds. "Go away. You should have come back when I was a baby, or not at all."

She turns on her bare heel and stalks back the way she came, but pauses. "King Dáin, I have something for Kili's mother," she says, fishing something out of her pocket. "I was going to ask to meet with her, but just now I think that a poor idea. If you could give her this, I would thank you for it."

She holds out a small stone, and Dáin, who has half looked as though his Begetting Day came early, sobers as he takes it.

"She'd like to meet you, lass," he says, his eyes flickering to Thranduil, then to Maglor, "when you actually have time. For now, I'll give her this."

Before she can reply, Maglor – who now sports a split lip, dripping blood down his chin – starts toward her, and Thranduil draws his sword almost without knowing what he's doing."

"I think it rather clear that she wants nothing to do with you," he says dryly.

Maglor spits red. "She wants nothing to do with _you_ , either," he retorts.

Thranduil barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, but unlike you, _I_ respect that." _No matter how much it hurts._ "Leave her, Maglor. She has her own life, and you have no right to intrude upon it."

"I am her _father_ ," Maglor snaps, reaching for his own blade, but there's a strange pain in his eyes, woven among the madness and wrath, pain and grief and _guilt_.

"That you sired her does not make you her father," Thranduil says, calm as can be. "Tauriel has endured enough. She does not need you on top of everything else, _Kinslayer_."

Thranduil can almost _feel_ Tauriel's eyes boring into the back of his head, hot as the sun. Her curiosity and confusion are no less palpable, for all he cannot see her.

"It pains me to say Thranduil is right, but he is," she says. "I have no father, Maglor. You lost that opportunity centuries ago. I am going home, and you will not follow me."

At the risk of his own head, Thranduil turns to look at her. Her hair blazes in the sunlight, a river of living fire, but her eyes are somehow irritated and stricken all at once. Maglor's next words do nothing to help.

"I'll find you, Tauriel," he says fervently, an ominous note of rising madness in his tone. "Wherever you go, I'll find you." And the truly terrible thing isn't the madness, it's the _wistfulness_ , the shadow in his eyes.

Her expression goes very, very strange – Tauriel has been difficult to read for decades, but just now, it is impossible. She tilts her head, watching her erstwhile father –

And, almost quicker than sight, draws her bow, aiming for his heart.

"You will not," she says, deathly quiet.

Most of the Elven delegation draws a hushed, horrified breath, but Thranduil freezes. He's near enough to see the murder in her molten green eyes.

"Tauriel, _no_ ," he says. "Do not be like _him_."

"Some things must run in the family," she says, her tone oddly flat. "Had he not abandoned my mother, she might yet live. The entire course of my life might have been different."

That _does_ make Thranduil flinch a little, for there is an edge to it that he knows is directed at him. She's not _wrong_ , either.

"That does not mean you should shoot him, Tauriel," he says, just barely keeping the urgency from his voice. Perhaps you are of his get, but you are not of his ilk. You are better than this."

Her eyes flicker to him, very briefly. "How would _you_ know?" she asks witheringly. "You know nothing of me."

"I do know that much," he insists. "Do not kill Maglor, Tauriel. Let me deal with him."

"Oh, very well," she sighs – and shoots her father in the foot. "Good luck trying to follow me now."

In spite of everything, Thranduil finds himself hard-pressed not to laugh – not helped at all by Maglor's yelp of pain. _There_ is the Tauriel that he knows, that he loves – it is precisely what she would have done, before he broke her.

Oh, how he wants to follow her when she turns and walks away, but as he told Maglor, he respects that she wants nothing to do with him, and he must continue to respect it.

"All right, I understand why she hit _him_ ," Dáin says, "but why in Mahal's name did the lass hit _you_?"

"She has her reasons," Thranduil says, touching his tender jaw. He'll have a fantastic bruise there by tomorrow morning. "And they are not without merit. Could I perhaps purchase some manacles from your people? Crippled or not, I do not trust Maglor to wander off on his own anyway."

Dáin laughs, but it doesn't last – something whistles through the air, and Tauriel lets out a cry of pain, collapsing into a heap on the grass.

Thranduil runs to her without a second thought, caring not a whit what anyone might do to Malgor – though if none of them kill the miserable creature, he will, Kinslaying be damned.

It's a knife the wretch threw, a long knife that went straight through Tauriel's thigh. Dark blood is already wicking its way through the fabric of her tunic, and she's swearing like a longshoreman, groping for the hilt.

"Tauriel, stop," he says, kneeling beside her. "If you pull it out now, you may well bleed to death. Wait until we can get you to a healer."

"I don't need your help," she says, and the statement is so patently absurd that he nearly laughs.

"Well, you need _someone's_ help, and I am what you have just now," she says, ready to catch her hand, should she reach for the hilt again.

"Then get me a healer, and go away." Incredibly, she's trying to stand, the foolish girl, and again it's all he can do not to roll his eyes.

"Will you hold _still_?" he demands, not quite daring to touch her, for all he wants to. "Like it or not, you need the healing wards, and then you can go back to your forest and ignore me for the rest of eternity."

"You are making that rather difficult," she grumbles, but at least she stops trying to move – though she also won't look at him. She does her best to curl into a ball, visibly seething – so angry that it seems the bulk of her pain has yet to hit her.

Oh, Thranduil wants to touch her, to hold her, but even now he knows how _that_ will end. When a healer comes running, he knows it would be wisest to leave her, but he cannot. Each second in Tauriel's presence is to be hoarded, even if she's still cursing like an Edain.

He has to stand back to let the healers work, and his eyes travel to Maglor – Maglor, whose sanity appears to have deserted him again. He looks uncertain now, and lost, as though he doesn't know where he is, or how he got here.

Well, that won't save him. Thranduil can't kill him, much as he _wants_ to, but the Elf just tried to murder one of his people – for so far as he is concerned, Tauriel remains his, whatever her feelings on the matter. So, as King of the Woodland Realm, he is well within his right to do what he does next.

Maglor holds neither sword nor knife, so Thranduil has no trouble at all bringing his sword around and slicing the wretched ellon's left hand clean off.

Predictably, Maglor howls, blood spraying from the stump of his wrist like a fountain, but with a proper tourniquet, he'll live. Thranduil plants a boot on his chest to hold him still, tearing a strip of cloth from his tunic.

"If you do not stop screaming, I will stuff this down your throat," he says, catching Maglor's arm and wrapping the fabric around his wrist, once, twice, three times, pulling it as tight as he can without ripping it. "You are only fortunate I am not like you."

To that, Maglor says nothing, though at least he stops screaming. He still looks genuinely bewildered – his confusion, it seems, is not feigned. It makes this punishment rather less satisfying.

Such a waste, he thinks. Maglor was one of Valinor's most accomplished musicians, and now look at him. What in Eru's name had Tauriel's mother been thinking? Perhaps she had not known who he was, but even so – Thranduil cannot imagine how such an unstable person could be appealing to an elleth. Her mother must have been very drunk indeed.

"What did you _do_ , Thranduil?" Tauriel calls, her voice laced with pain and irritation.

"I removed your father's hand," he says, wiping and sheathing his sword.

"He's not my father," she grumbles.

"Your sire, then. He will be throwing no more knives, at you or anyone else. And I suppose we must take him with us." The thought is…unpleasant, and made all the more so the longer Thranduil watches Maglor's shivering. No Elf should look like this, not even a Kinslayer.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she grunts, and hisses in pain.

He turns to see the healers wrapping bandages around her leg, knife and all. "I will not risk taking that thing out until you are safe in the healing wards," he says firmly. "You can hardly roam the forest with such an injury anyway."

She grumbles, and something twists in his heart, but it isn't necessarily unpleasant. Tauriel is not broken anymore, isn't frozen in silent hatred and unhappiness. He doesn't dare let himself hope she might wish to return, and yet….

And yet.

She will see her old home with new eyes. The caverns were hers for nearly six hundred years; they have only been poisoned for her for twenty. Perhaps – perhaps, when she sees the progress that has been made –

It is a fool's hope, and he knows it. Tauriel might no longer hate him, but she will never forgive him. He should know better than to hope he could ever convince her to stay.

* * *

This is not at all how Tauriel had thought her trip would go, and certainly not what she had _wanted_. She's tempted to pull the blasted knife out herself, but though Tauriel is stubborn, she isn't stupid. She really might well bleed to death if she does.

Which means she's stuck returning to the halls with Thranduil, and _Maglor_. Who is her _father_. If she could travel to the Halls of Mandos and slap her mother, she would, because truly? _Maglor?_

She grumbles yet more as she's loaded into a cart, softened by blankets and pillows on loan from various Edain. Maglor, only semiconscious, is loaded into another, and she thinks she deserves a medal for not spitting on him.

Brilliant. Just _brilliant_. Thought of the halls makes her skin crawl; she isn't nearly ready for that. She's healed, yes, from her mental and emotional wounds, but it's too soon. She doesn't see how she can face it – but then, she need not be there long. Take the knife out, bandage her leg, and she can fashion herself a crutch until it heals. Eru knows there is athelas in plenty this year. She doesn't have to linger.

She can do this. She can do this, and then return to her home – and never leave it again, if this is what happens when she does. Really, she should have listened to her intuition, and stayed put.

The cart jounces over ruts and rocks as it moves, and she grits her teeth and stares at the sky, willing the blue to soothe her. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't work.

 _I won't be trapped_ , she tells herself, breathing in the scent of lavender that clings to the blankets. _I won't. I won't_. And yet she has a terrible fear that she _will_ be – that Thranduil will lock her up, and believe it for her own protection. For whatever sick reason, he believes that he loves her, and she fears that could be detrimental to her freedom.

Oh Eru, she hopes not. Let him have accepted that she is lost to him, and stay out of her way.

Somehow, she doubts she is that lucky.

* * *

Tauriel, stubborn girl that she is, refused poppy, but eventually her consciousness deserts her anyway.

Though the bleeding is under control, she's too pale beneath her tan, and all Thranduil wants to do is hold her.

Hold her, and never let go.

Some dark, truly mad part of his mind is telling him that he must keep her, that he must prove to her he is not the ellon who hurt her so much. It whispers that she will forgive him, love him, if only he can prove himself to her.

But that will take time, and time he does not have. She will be out the door and gone as soon as she can walk with the aid of a stick.

Perhaps…perhaps that means he must make sure it takes longer than she would wish. He loves her, and she must know it with certainty. Perhaps she will leave again anyway, but he needs her to _know._

No matter what he has to do, to make her.

* * *

Eventually Tauriel wakes, and swears. _Why_ did she not let the healer give her poppy? Her leg is throbbing, pain coursing through it in red-hot waves, and she's more than a little nauseated, her skin cold and clammy.

Thranduil walks beside her cart, and she briefly entertains the idea of sitting up and being sick all over him. After a slight struggle, she does just that, though she really only hits his boots.

His expression is so revolted that she would laugh, if she wasn't in so much pain. She spits bile, grimacing herself, and all but falls back into the cart.

The sun is setting now, washing the trees red-gold, bright rays of it piercing the boughs. It is gorgeous, and she wishes she were watching it from her tree, not this wretched cart.

She doesn't look at Thranduil, but she doesn't need to – he's completely disgusted, and she allows herself a tiny smile. If only she could do that to Maglor, too.

Speaking of whom… "What are you going to do with your prisoner?" she asks, and her voice is little more than a dry rasp.

"Imprison him, for now. I will send someone to Galadriel – she will better know what to do with him permanently. He is, after all, her cousin."

That makes Tauriel a second cousin. She's related to the Lady of Lórien. "So much for being 'of lowly Silvan stock'," she says, and can't help but take a small bit of satisfaction when she sees him flinch out of the corner of her eye. It makes her frown; she ought to be beyond that by now. She had thought she was. Damn. They haven't even reached the halls, and already she is regressing.

She can't allow that to happen. She will not lose all the peace she has gained, will not be sucked back into the misery of her former existence. _I am Tauriel_ , she thinks, staring at the darkening sky, _and I am free_. Free in mind and fëa, even if she's physically stuck at the moment. There will be no rising to his bait – whether he intends to bait her or not. Even she realizes he likely won't do it on purpose.

 _Yavanna, stay with me_ , she pleads. Yavanna may well be the only one who can help her, now.

* * *

Thranduil knows he should not walk near Tauriel – it will only cause him pain, as it's doing right now. She'll keep needling him, he's sure of it – there is so much she might throw in his face, and make it sound like mischief rather than malice.

Eventually, though, she sleeps again, while the stars wink to life in the dark velvet sky. In sleep, she is relaxed, no strain or irritation or pain marring the serenity of her expression.

He'd watched her sleep that night, before drifting off himself. There had been a smile on her face then, an innocence in it she would never know again.

He wants to give it back to her – wants to give her anything, everything, but she will accept nothing. Not from him. Having her here, being able to look at her, is both a blessing and a torment.

She is shivering in her sleep, and Thranduil sheds his outer robe, laying it over her for a cover. He will retrieve it when they are home.

Unfortunately for him, what he does _not_ do is empty the pockets first.

* * *

When Tauriel wakes again, the golden light of sunrise is filtering through the canopy, and even with all her pain, she breathes a sigh of relief. She's home, even if, at the moment, things are…somewhat less than ideal.

For one thing, she recognizes her blanket for what it is. Much as she'd love to throw it away, she's too cold, so she settles for surreptitiously digging through the pockets, and stuffing the things she finds – a small wooden box, a glass jar, and several handkerchiefs – into her own. Perhaps, if she is obnoxious enough, Thranduil will be glad to see the last of her.

Meanwhile, she hurts. Oh, she hurts. She'd thought spider stings were bad, but this is ridiculous. It doesn't help that the knife is still in there, too, her leg immobilized by a splint.

She might not be able to _kill_ Maglor, but she'll have his other hand, before he's given over to Lady Galadriel. What she'll _do_ with it, she's not sure, but it will be hers, and not his. That is all that matters.

* * *

Yavanna shakes her head. While that could have gone worse, it could not have gone _much_ worse.

What a mess. What an utter mess. Maglor, mad and now one-handed; Tauriel, temporarily crippled and very annoyed, and Thranduil…Yavanna doesn't at all like where Thranduil's thoughts are going. She needs a word – or seven – with him.

Meanwhile, she's made certain he has conveniently forgotten that there was anything in the pockets of the robe he gave Tauriel. Those are things Tauriel must see for herself. What she will make of them, Yavanna isn't certain, but she must see them anyway.

As for _Maglor_ …he too lies unconscious in a cart, and she could strangle him. Of all the ways to greet his daughter…the ellon is not beyond redemption, even now, but he drove a nail right through the heart of any relationship he might have had with Tauriel. Yavanna can't blame Thranduil for chopping his hand off, though it made her wince anyway, for even after millennia, she remembers the beauty of Maglor's music. Such talent, such promise, wasted by that thrice-damned oath.

Well, this will have to play out as it has begun. At this point, there is little she can do.

* * *

When consciousness again finds Tauriel, she discovers she's been dosed with poppy in her sleep.

She can't really say she _minds_ , considering how much pain she'd been in; what she does mind, however, is the scent that assails her even before she opens her eyes. She knows well the aroma of herbs used in the healing wards: yarrow, feverfew, athelas, pennyroyal, the bitter and the sweet.

She's warm, at least, even if the bed is now too soft for her taste. When she opens her eyes, the room she finds herself in is larger than she expected: it's one of those used for long-term patients. The walls are lined with hooks for spare clothes, and smooth oak cupboards, with a bookshelf beside the bed, though that currently stands empty.

Her fingers trace over the soft green wool of the counterpane, even as she spies the small pile of her things on the end-table. Her clothes have been cleaned and mended, and when she scrabbles through them, she finds all her various belongings have been returned to her pockets – hers, and those she stole from Thranduil.

The tiny glass bottle puzzles her at first, until she holds it up to the light and realizes it contains a strand or two of her _hair_. Why in Eru's name is Thranduil carrying her hair, and how did he get it to begin with?

Tauriel is downright disturbed, and is now uncertain she wants to know what the box contains. It's a shallow rectangle, beautifully smooth and polished mahogany, with an oak tree intricately carved on the lid.

It's also locked, but her knives have been returned to her along with all else, and prising the lock open is but the work of a moment.

It is filled – stuffed – with folded parchment, so much that it spills out onto the bed as soon as the lid is open. She unfolds a piece, wondering what on earth he would feel the need to lock away and keep on his person. In his strong, elegant script, it says:

 _Tauriel,_

 _The sun is bright and fierce today, and I wonder how well you can see it, wherever you are. I know you have been hard at work thinning the canopy, but it is easy to forget what it is to be under open sky._

 _I must see Bard and deal with Dáin tomorrow. Still I wish that you were here, for you, I think, Dáin would actually listen to._

 _These lands are much changed even after a single winter, and I hope that someday, when memory of them no longer pains you, you will come to see them. It is as though the snows of winter have washed the taint of the dragon away when none were looking._

 _Bard's children, I know, will ask after you. At least I can tell them that you are well, and hard at work within your home. I know that you cannot be truly happy while you mourn, but it seems already that you deal with your grief far better than I ever have with mine. In some ways – crucial ways – you are stronger than I. Had I your strength, the kingdom might not have fallen into such darkness._

 _But the darkness is receding. When I return to the Woodland Realm, we will begin dismantling Dol Guldur. I hope that you will see it, in time, and know that your words have been heeded, even if it is far too late._

 _Gi melin, Tauriel, though you will never know._

She stares. He couldn't possibly have intended to _send_ this to her, not knowing where she lives within the forest. She picks up another, setting the first aside.

 _Tauriel,_

 _It has been so long since I have traveled in a procession, and I had forgotten how aggravating it is. An army can simply march, but a procession must be on its excessive dignity at all times, and it is beyond wearisome._

 _When you and Legolas were children, you always wished to accompany me, and always resented it when I said no, but in truth, I refused because I knew you would both be dreadfully bored. You would not have been able to play as you liked; you would have been trapped acting as small emissaries, and you would have hated every moment of it._

 _And you, I am certain, would have rebelled, and dragged Legolas in your wake. I have no doubt you would have done something amusingly, spectacularly destructive, and while I would have enjoyed it, Thrór the Humorless would not. Though seeing his expression might well have been worth it. I only wish I had you with me now._

 _Gi melin, Tauriel, though you will never know._

There are more, eight more, and by the time Tauriel is finished, she's stunned. This…she doesn't know what to _do_ with this. The letters, the hair – this isn't love, though she's certain now that's what he thinks it is. This is _obsession_ , and it leaves her deeply, _deeply_ disturbed.

Thranduil is obsessed with her, and she is currently crippled. There is no way at all this can end well.

She can't let him know she's seen any of this, but she also can't exactly rise to hide it, either. All she can do is stuff it under the mattress, for now.

She'd thought she would be angry, being trapped in the halls, that she'd sink back into the swamp of pain and hatred she'd been mired in for so long. And while she _is_ a little irritated, for the most part, Tauriel is very, very afraid.

* * *

Don't worry Tauriel – Thranduil's not actually as much of a creeper as he currently appears. (Though he _is_ kind of a creeper).

As for poor Maglor, I think he's probably actually the least murderous of Fëanor's sons (he's certainly the only one who actually expressed real regret), but he's been more than a little crazypants for thousands of years now. Maybe, just maybe, he'll re-discover a few of his marbles.


	10. The Best-Laid Plans

In which Thranduil has what he hopes is a good idea, Yavanna wants to strangle him, and rumor spreads.

* * *

Thranduil paces, restless, his robes whispering across the floor.

A half-finished letter to Lady Galadriel sits on his desk, but he can't focus enough to complete it. He can't focus on _anything_. The tiny bottle containing Tauriel's hairs is clenched in his left hand, the glass warmed by his fingers.

Tauriel is here. She is _here_ , and he wishes to see her, but he cannot – he does not deserve to, and he doesn't want to imagine what she would do if he were to try. She needs to rest and heal, and she can do neither in his presence.

And yet…this may well be the last time he will ever truly see her. Let her rail at him – let her throw things – let her hit him until she's satisfied. At least he will _see_ her, the fire in her eyes and the fire of her hair. He can burn the beauty of her face into his mind forever. It will be cold comfort, once he loses her again, but it will be better than nothing.

Yes, he will see her, one last time. Then, perhaps, he can finish this blasted letter, and tell Galadriel she needs to get his cousin out of his hair, before he chops off Maglor's other hand.

Late though it is, there are still many people about as he makes his way to the healing wards, all whispering about the newest acquisition. Thranduil cannot blame them; it is not every day one finds the (supposedly) last of the Fëanorians in the dungeons. And while still none know the circumstances of Tauriel's leaving, he bears a rather spectacular bruise on his chin where she punched him. It's clear evidence that her ire with him has not faded.

Except, in a strange way, it seems it _has_ – or at least, it has shifted form. In their last two interactions, she has been very _annoyed_ with him, but that frigid hatred is gone. He tries not to take heart in it for himself – it means only that she is healing, not that that she has any regard for him. He has been nothing to her for decades, and nothing he remains, and will always remain.

But she is here now, and here _she_ will remain, until her leg heals. For this last, brief amount of time, she is his, even if she will never see it that way.

He finds Ríniel cataloging herbs in the healing wards. At the moment, Tauriel is the only patient, and doubtless the healers are bored.

"My lord," she says, bowing her dark head.

"How is Tauriel?" he asks, without preamble.

"She is resting, for now," she says. "She woke earlier, and ate a bowl of soup, but she seems…well, my lord, she seems _afraid_. I have never known Tauriel to fear anything."

That is odd. He was expecting rage from her – at him, at Maglor, at the world. She must know that her so-called father is locked up; she has nothing to fear from _him_ , and she's never been afraid of Thranduil himself. "Have you asked her why?"

"I did not think it wise, my lord," Ríniel says frankly. "I did not wish to enrage her."

Well, that's a fair point. "If she says anything of it, tell me," he says. "And do not tell her I asked. Take me to her."

The healer hesitates. "So long as you do not wake her, my lord. I think we would all rather not repeat the last time she stayed in the wards."

"No," he says blandly, "we would not." He knows his people still speculate about that – and with Maglor here, that will only grow. He ought to be grateful they suspect him of offering her insult over her supposed heritage, rather than the truth, but now that that supposition has been _confirmed_ , the truth would almost be better. Yes, he would be dishonored in the eyes of his people, but it might deflect attention from the revelation of her parentage.

Thranduil follows Ríniel to Tauriel's room, an comes to a decision. He has suffered over this in silence long enough – this is a secret he will keep no longer. He will give his people something else to talk about.

Tauriel is indeed deeply asleep, her fiery hair spread out over her pillow. Without so much as a glance at Ríniel, he takes out his boot-knife and severs a red lock, coiling it around his fingers before putting it in his pocket.

The burn of the healer's shocked eyes follows him while he leaves, and he smiles, his heart suddenly lighter. Doubtless word of his bewildering behavior will spread like wildfire. Perhaps it will be easier to convince Tauriel of his feelings if everyone else knows of them first.

This will more than likely end in utter catastrophe, but he finds he no longer cares. No more does he sit idle in the running of his kingdom; it is high time his own life ceased languishing as well.

* * *

Yavanna covers her face with her hand. Thranduil, _Thranduil_ , what is she to _do_ with him? The ellon is a walking disaster.

And yet, just maybe, it will not be utterly terrible. Tauriel is right about his obsession, but wrong about the nature of his feelings. Left to her own devices, she will never believe otherwise, nor will she allow herself to recognize any sign of them for what they are. If everyone else does, however…that might help.

That Thranduil loves her would be obvious, if only he let it be – and it seems that is his intent. It is not, however, a healthy love, for he is not a healthy person, but nor is Tauriel. On her own, she'll never trust Thranduil again, and she has great reason not to. But if others come to trust his sincerity, perhaps she will, too.

It is a hope, anyway.

Meanwhile, Maglor languishes in the dungeons, his mind far away once more. At least Thranduil is keeping him well-tended – his injury is cared for, and he is decently fed, with a comfortable mattress. Still Yavanna grieves the loss of his hand, and still she cannot blame Thranduil at all.

Really, she doesn't know why so many of the Firstborn look down on the other races of Middle-Earth. They're perfectly capable of making all sorts of fine messes of their very own.

* * *

Ríniel wastes no time at all telling the other healers of the King's strange behavior.

They are all very bored, given their lack of patients, and often meet up in one of the distilleries for a glass or two of wine. It's a large room, but crowded with kettles and cauldrons, the shelves lined with bottles of all colors and sizes, glittering like jewels in the lamplight.

"Why in Eru's name would he take a lock of her _hair_?" Iólel asks, her blue eyes wide. She's perched on the edge of the long counter, wedged between stacks of iron pots.

Ríniel thinks back on all of the interactions she's witnessed – all the way to the tent on the battlefield, when the King so desperately ordered her to save Tauriel. That had been extremely…personal.

"I think he's in love with her," she says. "And she, for whatever reason, very obviously doesn't reciprocate. Something must have happened between them, at some point.

Iólel looks incredibly dubious; Amaniel does not. She's been closer to many of the Guard than the other healers for several hundred years. "If something did, it happened twenty years ago," she says. "Tauriel changed, abruptly and drastically. I do not know what it could _be_ , but she went from being fond of the King to holding him in total contempt, though I don't believe she ever said anything aloud of it. She did not need to. Somehow, he hurt her immensely."

"Then she tried to kill herself, attacked him, and snuck away as soon as soon as she was able," Iólel muses. "I do not foresee this ending well. Especially not now that her…father…is here." _That_ story made the rounds as soon as the delegation returned – including Tauriel's reaction to that…revelation. Tauriel will want out of here as soon as possible, whether she's healed or not. Someone is going to have to watch over her – someone she cannot overpower, and who will not aid her escape, as Huoriel did.

The problem is that the guards are all very loyal to their captain – too loyal for her own good. It must be impressed upon them that sneaking her out before she is fully healed would be very dangerous to her. Even without the spiders, the forest is too dangerous for her to wander about it partially crippled.

And the King…oh, _that_ worries Ríniel. In these last months he has been so different, so active. No one wants to see him return to his former state, but if Tauriel continues to freeze him out, that is all but inevitable.

Ríniel needs to discover what happened between them. As things stand, she wants to encourage Tauriel to forgive him, but that want might not remain once she knows what he actually _did_. Whatever it was, it must have been very bad, to change Tauriel so much.

But the King – when he'd taken that lock of hair, he'd looked so very sad. Whatever happened, he heartily regrets it. But if it was as bad as Ríniel fears, that might not be enough. As a healer, she knows that some hurts never truly heal.

* * *

Sadronniel is weary, but not too weary for gossip.

She sits in the crowded guardroom, which is bright and over-warm from the presence of so many people, cleaning her boots and listening.

Having been at Erebor, she already knew about Tauriel's father, and related _that_ juicy tale to all and sundry. This, however, is news to her, and nearly as shocking.

She wishes she could say she does not believe it, but, as she chips dried mud from leather, she can't. For all the King has been much more active, she's also seen flashes of sorrow in his eyes since Tauriel left. She never would have made the connection, give how frosty their relationship has been on both sides for twenty years, but Faelon insists it's true.

"You didn't see him in the tent, after she'd tried to kill herself," he says. He sits not on a bench, but on a table, mending a rend in his brown cloak. "I did not think him capable of such desperation, but desperate he was. He told her that she had to live, and he would help her to Imladris or Lothlórien, where she need never think on him again. He said or did _something_ twenty years ago. Before that, I had always thought her rather fond of him, but after that – well, you all saw how much she hated him, for all she never spoke of it. Or him."

 _That_ Sadronniel has to concede. Whenever anyone mentioned the King, frigid loathing flashed through Tauriel's eyes – at first. After five years or so, it shifted to vicious, icy contempt. No, she never _said_ anything, but Faelon is right – she didn't need to. She was never anything less than professional, but there was an edge, a hardness, that had never been there before.

But the King – if there had ever been any manner of regard there since then, he's hidden it very, very well. Why be so obvious – well, obvious by his standards – about it now?

"I wonder what he did," Belegorn says, and drains his cup of wine. "After the battle, in the healing wards, she was very intent on finishing what she started. She'd all but knocked me out, but I heard her say that he had taken everything from her, and he would not take her death as well."

Icy suspicion works its way into Sadronniel's gut. That wording…an ellon would not see the significance of it, but _she_ does. "I think he seduced her," she says, half incredulous, "and must have been very cold to her afterward."

The entire room stares at her. " _What?_ " Aegnor says. "Why in Eru's name would you think _that_?"

"It's what she said, isn't it?" Menelwen asks, from her seat in the corner. She's gripping an entire jug of wine, as possessively as though it is a child.

"Yes.'You took everything from me' – Tauriel has always had few material possessions. There is only one thing she had to give that she would not have desired wasted."

The rest of them look deeply disturbed. Yes, the King has been ill-tempered as long as a number of them have been alive, but none would have thought him capable of sinking so low. He must have spun a web of pretty lies, for Tauriel would not have casually given herself to him. No _wonder_ she has hated him so much – and no wonder she finally left.

"Well, he obviously regrets it _now_ ," Faelon says, breaking the shocked silence.

"Yes, twenty years too late," Menelwen snorts. "You know Tauriel – the world could end and she wouldn't forgive him. And honestly, I don't think she _should_. I had thought the King better than that."

So has Sadronniel. Tauriel must have, too. That poor girl – she must have felt so very alone, too ashamed to confide in anyone. "We have to get her away," she says. "As soon as she can stand, we must take her elsewhere. Between the King and Maglor, if she stays, I fear she'll try to take her own life again."

"We would be banished," Faelon points out.

"I am uncertain I care," Sadronniel retorts. "I do not know that I want to serve a King who could do such a thing, and show no remorse until the one he betrayed is gone."

"He's changed, though," Belegorn says. "I think he is trying to atone for his misdeeds."

Belegorn is likely right, but still. Sadronniel might not agree with some of the King's policies, but she's always respected him. Now, though…if she's right – and she's sure she is – how can she serve him? That – that is something some base _Edain_ monarch would do.

Poor Tauriel. That really would explain so very much. Yes, they must get her away, as soon as they possibly can.

* * *

Word of the King's strange actions reach Lady Silwen through her handmaid, Idríniel. Idríniel's brother is a guard, and is all too happy to report the guards' speculations.

They might be surprised, but Silwen is not. She mastered the art of watching much and saying little millennia ago, and what she does not actually know of the goings-on in the halls, she can usually guess.

The King has always looked at Tauriel with a subtle fondness few would notice. While one wouldn't think him the sort to engage in anything as risky as seducing one of his subjects, even he could have moments of weakness – a moment that Silwen at least has been able to see he has regretted for twenty years, though she realizes now she was wrong about the nature of it. All this time she's thought him angry that he betrayed the Queen, that he had given into weakness and debased himself with a Silvan elleth, for he is the sort who would see it as such.

Now, though…well, this is much worse. That Tauriel loathes him, and has loathed him, is no secret, for all she's been silent about it. Silwen rather dreads how this will end.

She wonders what Thranduil said or did – both to get her into his bed, and to drive her off after the fact. If the wretched ellon wished companionship of _that_ nature, there are many who would give it without persuasion, but no – he had to pick Tauriel, a girl so young she would not understand she was being used. Someone older, more experienced, would know how that manner of game was played, but Tauriel had been so open and innocent and so very, very naïve, and doubtless the King had preyed on that.

And yet, now it seems Silwen has been wrong in her estimation of his regret, and _that_ will get…messy. _Why_ , if he loves – or thinks he loves – the poor girl, would he have done whatever he did to make her hate him so? And why did he let it fester for twenty years? She's very much afraid she knows where this is going, and she could slap Thranduil. There are some things from which there is no going back, and a broken heart is one of them. If he thinks he can earn Tauriel's forgiveness, let alone her love, he is destined to be disappointed.

And perhaps someone needs to tell him so, before he makes an incurable mess. Silwen has never feared Thranduil, nor his temper, and should he give in to it and banish her – well, she has kin in Lothlórien. _Someone_ needs to knock some sense into him, and if she doesn't do it metaphorically, Tauriel will do it literally. That poor girl has suffered enough already, and Thranduil has been a fool for far too long.

* * *

When Tauriel wakes, there is dull, throbbing pain in her leg, and she's desperately thirsty. A jug and a glass sit on the nightstand, and she pours herself some water and drains the glass in three long swallows.

She's queasy with fear, too, though at first she can't remember why. When the lingering fuzziness of the poppy clears, she wishes she still didn't remember.

 _What do I have to fear, really_? she asks herself, trying to tamp down her unease as she pours another glass of water. Thranduil is unlikely to directly lock her up, or so she hopes. If his letters are at all sincere, he would not deliberately cause her misery – and while he is obsessed, he is neither insane nor delusional. At least, he does not _seem_ to be, and just now, she has to trust that appearance, or she will go mad.

She gropes under the mattress, and finds her stolen good still there. Sooner or later he will realize they are missing – but she can't let herself think of _that_ right now, either.

Oh, what is she to _do?_ Just now, Thranduil doesn't need to lock her up – she doubts her leg would bear her weight if she tried standing, let alone walking.

"Yavanna, help me," she says aloud, and drains her glass again. For once in her life, Tauriel is well and truly stuck – she literally cannot get out of this on her own, and the mere thought is suffocating. For twenty years, she could have left any time she liked, but now? Now she is trapped. Such a wound will take at least a fortnight to heal enough to allow her to walk even with the aid of a stick.

 _What_ is she going to _do?_

 _Heal._ Heal, and hope Thranduil is too busy with Maglor to spare time – or thought – for her.

Somehow, she doubts she will be that lucky.

* * *

Yeah, Thranduil, you've just opened up one massive jar of bees, and you have no idea yet just _how_ massive. Meanwhile, Tauriel is not, in fact, that lucky – and there's still Maglor, who we will see again soon.


	11. Confrontation

In which Thranduil gets a chewing-out he richly deserves, Tauriel finds out everyone _else_ has found out what happened to her, and she and Thranduil finally have a conversation. Sort of.

* * *

Tauriel is restless, jittery, frightened, and very annoyed.

The healers won't let her get up _at all_ , not even to use the toilet – she's forced to make use of the pot. She hates sitting still under the best of circumstances, which these are emphatically _not_.

They are also giving her some very strange looks, which only aggravates her further. It's hardly her fault _Maglor_ is her father, but if they have something to say about it, she wishes they'd just say it and have done with it.

Thranduil hasn't yet come to see her, which leaves her both relieved and jumpy. She knows he will eventually, and part of her wants to get _that_ out of the way, too. If she hurts him enough – and not physically – he won't come back. And, thanks to those letters, she knows just how to do it. There is a strange justice to it, though she cannot now take the satisfaction in it she would have. It's a means to an end, but she no longer saw it as vengeance. Apparently she's been having that already, and had no idea.

It shouldn't please her, that he's been suffering, too, but it does. Maybe now he has some idea what he put her through for twenty years. He'll likely recover faster than she did – he's selfish like that – but he has some inkling, now. And that is justice.

* * *

The letter to Galadriel has been drafted, sealed, and sent, and Thranduil is once again in want of a distraction. What he receives, however, is not what he wants.

Lady Silwen appears at his door, looking quite serene, and not at all as though she worries about how he will react to being interrupted. She is a tall, immaculate, golden-haired doll of an elleth, formerly handmaid to his mother, possessed of a sharp tongue and a sharper mind. He's never asked her to keep an eye on what passes for court intrigue within his realm, but she does it anyway.

Usually, however, she sends him notes – he's rarely spoken to her in person outside of formal meetings, and he's curious enough now that he lets her in without comment.

No sooner has he shut the door behind her, however, than she says, in her usual blunt way, "My King, you are being a fool."

Thranduil is so shocked that his usual anger is slow in coming. "I beg your pardon?" he says, only a faint edge to his voice.

"This business with Tauriel," she says calmly, her deep blue eyes regarding him steadily. "It will not work. If you have any actual regard for the poor girl, you should never have seduced her. She will not forgive you, my lord, and you have started a number of very unflattering rumors about yourself."

He stares at her. "Explain," he orders, his voice soft and dangerous.

Silwen remains unperturbed. "Rumor flies fast in these halls, my lord," she says. "You took a lock of Tauriel's hair yesterday, in full sight of Ríniel. The news made it to the guards, who speculated that which I worked out twenty years ago: you seduced Tauriel and drove her away, which is why she hates you so. You are losing the respect of your subjects, my lord. They had all thought you better than that."

Thranduil has a sudden, violent, and thankfully transient urge to snap Silwen's slender white neck. "I have hidden what I feel for Tauriel long enough," he says. "The love _and_ the remorse. I will hide it no longer."

"Well, you _ought_ to," she retorts. "Your feelings are not the issue, my lord – it is your _actions_. There are those among the Guard who are considering _desertion_ over this. They have worked alongside Tauriel, and wondered for twenty years who had damaged her so, and now that they _know_ – she avoided you, my lord. You have never truly seen the results of your ill-thought seduction. You nearly destroyed that girl, who has been friend to all of them for centuries. They know now that it was your doing, and more of them than you would like are considering following Huoriel."

 _That_ – Thranduil did not think of that, not truly, but he _should_ have. When will he learn that acting on impulse avails him nothing?

"Let them," he says. "Now that they know what it is that they serve, let them go. I would deserve it." He means it, too; he's lived a lie for twenty years, and it is high time that ended. And if his people cannot bear the truth…well, he deserves to be left.

Silwen actually looks a little mollified by that. Thranduil knows that he is delusional, in some things at least, but in others he is not. He knows what he deserves, but he cannot help but hope that things will be better anyway, that he can repair the damage he has done. He has to _try_.

"And what will you do," she asks, "when Tauriel is healed, and wishes to leave?"

He shuts his eyes. "I have no choice but to let her," he sighs, "though it may well kill me." He looks at Silwen. "Did you really think that I would hold her prisoner?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," she says dryly. "Where she is concerned, you are even more unpredictable than usual. I do not know what you were – and are – thinking, my lord."

"Tauriel will leave," he sighs. "My heart knows this, even thought my mind still dares hope. But before she goes, I want her to be sure of my regret, and that my love for her is true, however toxic it has been to us both. And she will never believe it if I keep it secret. If she knows the price I will pay for it, after she is gone – it may well give her some manner of satisfaction, knowing I will get what I deserve. If she knows that I will suffer even after she departs – _she_ deserves _that_. I left her in such pain for far too long, and while I suffered myself, she would never believe it. It is – my turn, now. And that she needs to know, with surety."

He still holds what even he knows to be a vain hope that she will someday forgive him, even if she never tells him so. Elves do, after all, live forever; perhaps, in a thousand years, she might. And perhaps then his guilt and remorse will stop eating him alive.

Silwen regards him carefully, searching his face. "I still think this will end in disaster," she says, "but your motives are more pure than I expected. I will do what I can, to control the damage."

She bows, and leaves at his dismissive wave.

He has no doubt that she will. Unlike many of his nobles, her primary concern is the health of the Realm. She is far older than most – older even than him, and she is the only one left in Middle-Earth who has passed once through Mandos's Halls already. She actually reminds him a little of his mother, albeit far more acerbic.

He sinks into an armchair, head in his hands. Regardless of what he told her, he hopes for Tauriel's love, however certain he is that it is in vain. He must hope, or he will go mad – or Fade.

For Fading is not outside the realm of possibility. He too has been frozen for so very long, and now that he has stirred to help his kingdom, he is thawing. And with that thaw comes all the pain his internal ice has numbed for centuries.

Without that frail, tenuous hope, Fading is all but inevitable. And at this point, he cannot say he would mind.

* * *

Just when Tauriel can stand this room no longer, Sadronniel pays her a visit.

"Thank Eru," she sighs. "I have a very large favor to ask of you."

"What?" Sadronniel asks. Her expression is very strange – almost pitying – but Tauriel is too desperate to care why.

"I want to go speak to Maglor," she says, "but I cannot walk yet. The healers would allow me out if I went on a litter." The very thought galls her, but Tauriel is nothing if not a pragmatist. She knows she isn't capable of anything more yet, and even if she was, it is a long way to the dungeons. The healers would never allow it.

"I will see what I can do," Sadronniel says, and her expression is still quite odd. "How are you, Tauriel?"

"Sore," she grumbles, "and bored. And incredibly disturbed. I knew my father could not be any good, given that he abandoned my mother, but I never for a moment suspected he could be _Maglor_. I don't – I don't know what to _do_ with that. I know he is mad, but I must speak with him anyway. I must hear what he has to say. He owes me that much."

"And what of the King?" Sadronniel asks carefully.

Tauriel snorts. "What _of_ him? He is my problem no longer. Once I can walk with the aid of a stick, I will be gone."

Sadronniel sits on the chair beside the bed. "Why do you hate him so?"

"I have reasons," Tauriel says darkly, "and they are my own. But no longer do I hate him – I have learned much in the forest, and that includes how to let go. I am happy – or I was, until I had this revelation dumped in my lap."

Sadronniel is quiet a moment, her grey eyes grave. "When you go," she says, "there are some among the Guard who will go with you. We have had some revelations of our own, though I will say no more than that."

Warning bells clang in Tauriel's mind, and vague dread curdles in her stomach. Sadronniel was her lieutenant, before her promotion to captain; she's been trained for over a century to answer to Tauriel's commands, so Tauriel says, in her best Captain's voice, "Elaborate."

"We know what the King did, to make you loathe him so," Sadronniel says at once, and winces. "I worked it out yesterday."

Fury coils in Tauriel's chest, but it is buried under overwhelming shame. That was _her_ secret, her mistake – no one else was ever supposed to know of it. She wants to deny it, to say that it's ridiculous, but she's always been a terrible liar. She tries anyway. "And what is it you think you have worked out?" It's a feeble attempt, for her face is burning with her shame.

"He tricked you," Sadronniel says evenly. "He lied, and took advantage of you, and that is why some of us – including myself – would leave. I cannot serve a King who would stoop so low."

"You do not – you do not blame me?" Tauriel asks, and hates how small her voice is. "I should never have fallen for it. I was so – so _stupid_."

Sadronniel takes her hand. "The King is nothing if not persuasive, Tauriel, and I know that you were fond of him, once. I have no doubt he led you to believe you were special to him in some way, that he considered what you would give him to be a gift."

"I did," Tauriel whispers, shutting her eyes. She's still so ashamed, but at the same time, it's almost a relief to speak of it. "I knew it was not love, that it could never lead to anything, but I thought – I should have seen through it. I should have realized he was incapable of appreciating anything. That gift or not, I was a warm body and nothing more. I was so naïve, but he truly is an accomplished liar."

And yet she can't forget what he said in the forest, when he thought there were none about to hear him – that the night was truth, and the morning was the lie. There was nothing but honesty in his words, and yet she cannot believe him. He's had twenty years to convince himself of all manner of things, to revise history in his own mind to assuage his guilt. She's sure he really does believe that he loves her, but now he's just lying to himself.

"I think you _were_ more," Sadronniel says slowly, "but that does nothing at all to excuse his actions, then or since. He's had twenty years to apologize, to make reparation, and yet he was a statue until you were gone. He misses you, Tauriel, and terribly, but that absolves him of nothing."

She can well believe he does miss her, though she can't imagine _why_. All she's done for twenty years is loathe and avoid him. "Let him miss me. Let him drown in his own guilt and rot." She pauses. "How have you finally worked this out, after all this time?"

Sadronniel winces again. "You will not like this," she warns. "Yesterday, when you were asleep, Ríniel brought him to see you, and he took a lock of your hair."

Hot wrath and cold horror war within Tauriel's heart, such a terrible combination that she shudders, her skin crawling. "He. Did. _What?_ " she demands, her words nearly a growl.

"He took a lock of your hair," Sadronniel says grimly. "Do not ask me _why_. Perhaps he wanted some sort of memento, for after you leave."

"At least he plans to _let_ me leave," Tauriel snarls. "I had wondered. Sadronniel, from now on, if any can be spared, I want one of the guard in here with me when I sleep. Otherwise I think I may never sleep again."

"I will tell the others," Sadronniel says, releasing her hand and rising. "And I will get you a litter."

When she is gone, Tauriel pulls the shade from the lamp, burning her fingers in the process. She digs under the mattress and pulls out the little wooden box, fumbling it open. One by one she burns the letters, dropping them on the floor when the flames are nearly spent. The second-to-last she wraps around the two hairs, incinerating them as well.

But, for whatever reason, she can't bring herself to burn the last, which is the first one she read. Her hand simply will not move. Finally, exasperated, she tucks it into the pocket of her tunic, folded on the other table.

The box and the bottle she leave on the floor. Let him find them, and the ashes of his false, so-called love.

If he thinks he can be so unsettling – and in front of a witness, no less – he must be reminded of where he stands. He has his place, and it will never be what he thinks he wants.

Maybe, just maybe, this will cure him of his delusions.

* * *

When Sadronniel shuts the door behind her, she very nearly screams – for she very nearly runs into the King.

Oh, Eru, how long has he been listening? How much has he heard? Her heart nearly fails her at the thought of what he might do.

And yet it is not rage in his pale eyes, but weariness, and a sorrow so depthless it pulls at her very fëa. Never, ever has she seen such grief, not even after the battle.

He says nothing – merely turns and walks away, and only now does she dare breathe. Somehow, for all her disappointment and contempt, the sight of his grief and remorse shakes her. He deserves it, and yet…and yet. She should not pity him, for he has none but himself to blame, but that level of raw _anguish_ would make her pity almost anyone.

Maybe Tauriel is wrong – maybe he truly does love her, and is simply too damaged to express it like a sane person. If that is the case, it only makes things so very, very much worse.

* * *

Yavanna is near to despair. And yet, Tauriel kept the one letter, without any divine urging. Yavanna has no more idea _why_ than she does, but still. Hopefully it means something.

The pair of them are so very broken, and cannot be repaired until they have come to terms with each other. If Thranduil thinks sending Maglor to Galadriel will be a simple thing, he is very mistaken. The ellon might be completely mad, but he is one of the most formidable warriors left in Middle-Earth – even with only his damaged hand to work with.

And now Tauriel wishes to speak with him. Perhaps, if there is any luck in this universe, she might bring some part of him back. He is not _evil_ , even now, for all he has fallen so very far. He was never as Curufin, as Celegorm – out of all the brothers, he most closely matched his mother in temperament. Thranduil and Tauriel might still be making a mess of things, but some good may yet come of this.

* * *

Thranduil waits until Tauriel has gone before returning to her room. He needs the woodsy scent of her, the ghost of her presence, or he will go mad

What he finds, however, nearly breaks him.

He had entirely forgotten there was anything in his pockets, when he gave Tauriel his robe for a blanket. He's only reminded now because the box and empty bottle are on the floor, surrounded by the ashes of his letters.

She read them. She read the letters, the pages that contained the words of his heart – and she burned them. From the scent of it, she also burned the hair.

Thranduil shuts the door behind him, sits on his bed, and weeps in silence. He cannot even find it in himself to care that he might well be found like this.

* * *

Sadronniel is silent and visibly disturbed as she bears one end of Tauriel's litter, but Tauriel lets her be. If she wants to say anything, she will; if not…well, she's no longer under Tauriel's command.

Still, something bothers her, something that's happened after she left the healing wards. Since Sadronniel is rather difficult to bother, that is not a good sign.

Unfortunately, her trip to the dungeons is aborted before she even gets there.

"Maglor is under sedation," Belegorn says apologetically. "He kept ripping open his wound pounding on the bars, so the healers have put him to sleep for now. Wherever his mind has gone, it is not here."

"Have someone tell me when he wakes," she says. "I must speak with him, even if he no longer knows who I am."

"I will, Captain," he assures her.

"I am not your Captain anymore, Belegorn," she points out. "I am Tauriel." She is Tauriel, but she cannot add 'and I am free', for she is patently _not_ free at the moment – and not only because she cannot walk.

"Would you like to go to the guardroom?" Sadronniel asks.

Tauriel shakes her head. Now that everyone knows her shameful secret, she can't bear to see them all at once – even if, like Sadronniel, they blame Thranduil. She simply can't do it. "No," she says. "Take me back to my room. Perhaps I should sleep."

The trip back is easy enough – mercifully, there are none about to see her. She finds the bored healers playing chess, and it's all she can do not to laugh. Their job tends to be all or nothing, and she does not envy them at all.

When she reaches her room, however, she gets a very nasty shock.

The litter is too ungainly to move through the door very well; Sadronniel sets it down and picks her up before opening the door. It sends pain lancing through her leg, and she grits her teeth against a curse – a curse she lets fly when she realizes her room is already occupied.

Thranduil sits on her bed, head in his hands, and though he's completely silent, his shoulders are trembling slightly. If he knows they are there, he doesn't seem to care at all.

Tauriel looks at Sadronniel, completely at a loss. She had better deal with this, much as she doesn't want to. And her look must communicate that, for Sadronniel sets her carefully in the chair beside the bed, and silently leaves.

Eventually, after the most agonizingly awkward silence in the history of ever, Thranduil raises his head. His eyes are red, his cheeks shiny with tears, and it is so, _so_ wrong. What made her think she could deal with this?

"You burned my letters," he says, and his voices is hoarse in a way she has never heard it. In this moment, he looks nothing at all like the King – this is Thranduil, the person, near as broken as she was for so long. And while he deserves every second of it, _watching_ it is far more difficult than she ever could have anticipated.

"I did," she says, but there is no malice in her tone. "You stole my hair."

He shuts his eyes. "Yes, I did. I k now that you will leave as soon as you are able, never to return, and I…" He doesn't seem able to finish the sentence. "Why did you burn my letters?"

"Because they are lies," Tauriel says, almost gently. "Lies to yourself. You do not love me, Thranduil, and I do not know why you have convinced yourself that you do."

His eyes open, and there is frustration mingled with his pain. "How can you say that?" he demands, but it's fractured, not strident. "How can you think you know what is in my heart?"

She sighs. "Because people do not do what you did to me to someone they love," she says simply. "They are not so deliberately cruel. You knew exactly what would hurt me the most, and you used it. You've had twenty years to say something, and you said nothing. If not for the battle, things would have gone on as they were, until I finally grew fed up and left.

"What you feel is not love, Thranduil. It is sorrow, and remorse. What happened, happened, and there is no changing it. Stop writing letters, and throw away the hair. Move on. _I_ have."

She can't help but marvel a little at how calm she is. She ought to be raging, screaming, but she cannot be cruel to one so obviously broken, no matter what he did to her. In a way, she does pity him, because it's impossible _not_ to pity someone so wretched.

To her complete shock, Thranduil falls onto his knees before her, taking her hands in his. She's so stunned that she doesn't slap him away, because this, _this_ is frightening. It's one thing to see him break down when he thought himself alone, but to let someone – to let her – actually _see_ him like this…it's terrifying, and Tauriel has no idea at all what to do.

"I am sorry, Tauriel," he whispers, pressing his brow to the back of her right hand, and she can feel the heat of his tears on her fingers. "I know you do not believe me, and I know it changes nothing, but I _am_. You are wrong, Tauriel – I do love you, though it has been nothing but poison to us both."

She looks at him, so shattered on his knees before her, and tries to reconcile it with the cold creature who so deliberately wounded her with such precision. She can't do it, and the dissonance is almost more than she can bear.

"I do believe you are sorry," she says, trying to extricate her hands. "I've seen it, but you do not love me. I could never have done to Kili what you did to me."

His grip tightens, and a small, wounded sound leaves his throat. "You are not me," he says heavily. "You are good and pure. I have been a fractured wreck since before you were born. My live is just as fractured, but you cannot tell me it is not real." He raises his head. "I will prove it to you, though I know you will leave. I _must_."

Before she can say anything, he rises, and runs his fingers through her hair. "You are my woman in starlight, Tauriel," he says, "whose hair is a river of flame."

And then he is gone, and she's left wondering what in Eru's name just happened.

* * *

Well, that was a conversation it was high time they had, even if it was painful as hell.


	12. Fading

In which poor Yavanna has way too much work to do.

* * *

Not knowing what else to do, Tauriel lays down and tries to sleep. Still the mattress feels too soft, and her mind will not quiet.

Part of her dreads what Thranduil might do, but most of her cannot help but pity him, much though she doesn't want to. She does, after all, understand his pain, and that understanding is his fault. She should take some manner of satisfaction in it, but she can't. Unlike him, she is not, at heart, a cruel person. She has paid him back; she can't stomach inflicting worse upon him.

She pulls the covers over herself, wincing as she shifts her leg. The sheets smell of lavender, but the scent does not soothe her.

How can she disabuse him of this mad delusion? She has a feeling her life will go very ill if she does not. _How_ , she isn't sure, but it could, very easily.

And part of her, though she _really_ doesn't want to, mourns. Would she have forgiven him, if he had apologized long ago? Maybe. She would never have _trusted_ him again, but perhaps she would not have hated him so.

Well, she'll never know. He said nothing until it was far too late, and now he's convinced himself that he loves her. It is, as the Edain would say, a pretty kettle of fish.

"Yavanna, what do I do?" she whispers, shutting her eyes. Though she's in a cavern full of thousands of other people, she feels so very, very alone.

* * *

In truth, Yavanna is uncertain what to tell Tauriel. Thranduil is even more unstable than she realized.

Tauriel might no longer wish to wound Thranduil, but neither will she be satisfied if his pain ceases to soon. She suffered for twenty years, and Yavanna fears that he will have to suffer just as long before she can forgive him.

The problem with _that_ is that Tauriel is young and strong, whereas Thranduil is ancient, with a past filled with countless horrors. Yavanna isn't certain he could _last_ twenty years like this – with Legolas gone, he has no personal reason not to Fade.

Tauriel can't leave him like this for the next two decades, but Yavanna is afraid that is exactly what she will decide to do. And while it is justice, it will also break him. It didn't take long at all for Tauriel to learn how to cope again, but Thranduil is incapable of it – not without outside help. And Yavanna fears even she cannot give it to him.

Something has to happen. Something has to give. And Yavanna has no idea what it must be.

* * *

Thranduil's depression is so deep that it is all he can do to make it back to his rooms.

It's chilly, and dark, but he can't even bring himself to build up the fire or light a lamp. He sits and stares at the glowing coals, scarcely registering anything around him.

His heart feels so raw that it is physically painful – a dull, thumping ache that rises and ebbs with each heartbeat. He is alone – so very alone, and he wonders how he ever could have been mad enough to think he is better off that way.

It was almost easier when Tauriel hated him. Yes, it was painful, and tore at him every time he saw her, but at least she felt _something_. Knowing that she has completely washed her hands of him…it is good, for her sake. She is healing. And yet it hurts him in ways he never would have imagined.

He's glad she is healing, for she seems now more like herself, like Tauriel as she should be, but part of him is selfish enough to wish that she still thought of him, even when she wasn't directly confronted with him. Eru knows he rarely gets _her_ out of his head for more than five minutes at a time.

She will not believe him, he realizes dully. No matter what he does or says, she will never believe that he loves her, because she does not want to. She will lurk in the forest for centuries, forever out of his reach, and he will be alone.

Thranduil has done his utmost to be a good King again, but he knows that few to none would truly miss him if he was gone. Even his son cannot stand the sight of him. Anameleth does not wait in Valinor – and in any case, after all he has done, he does not deserve to set foot upon that shore. No, he is not Maglor, not a Kinslayer, but he has been bad enough.

He looks at his hands, his long, white fingers. They have loved and healed, but they have also hurt and killed. They are stained with millennia of bloodshed, a stain he can feel, even if neither he nor anyone else can see it.

What startles him, however – what breaks his malaise – is the light of his own fëa. It's dimmer, if only but a fraction, but he knows well what it means.

He is Fading. And he cannot say that he minds.

* * *

Try though she does, Tauriel can't sleep, even after another dose of poppy. The floaty feeling in her head is a distraction, but not enough of one.

Oh, how she wishes that she could pace – that she could run away and never return. Damn Thranduil – he's shaken her badly, in ways she can't ignore, however much she _wants_ to.

Eru, she wants her treehouse – wants her bed of leaves, on which she can lie and watch the stars. She isn't used to living underground anymore, and she misses the sky.

She misses many things, and she can have none of them here.

If only Maglor was awake. Talking to him would certainly be a distraction – an _unpleasant_ distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. She has so very many questions for him, though she knows already she will like none of the answers.

Frustrated, she rolls to face the ceiling. The scent of smoke still lingers, the ashes of Thranduil's letters still lying where they fell. Even now she's trying to reconcile them with his precise, measured cruelty that morning, and she still cannot do it. It's as if he is two wholly different people.

She could have loved him, easily. She _had_ loved him, in a way – just not _that_ way. The fact that he deliberately crushed that is not her fault, and she cannot now forgive him for it, even if she wanted to – and she has no interest in trying. His misery disturbs her, but it is not _her_ fault, nor is it her problem. He has to deal with it alone, as she did. Soon she will be gone, and then he will learn how to move on, as she has done. It's simple.

So why does she feel so _guilty_?

Even now, Tauriel doesn't have it in her to wish he should be _happy_ , for he does not deserve to be. But the sheer depth of his misery seems wrong, too; he's taking this far worse than she ever did.

Legolas, she decides, needs to come home. When her leg has healed, she will seek him – though she cannot tell him precisely why he is needed. If he knew, he would never forgive Thranduil, either, which would not help in the slightest.

Is there no one left in this world who truly loves him? Tauriel doesn't think so. And, although he's deliberately driven everyone away, that is still beyond sad. She herself might have no family, but she has many friends among the Guard. Thranduil doesn't even have that. No wonder he's such a wreck of a person.

Eventually, she gives up, and swings her feet over the edge of the bed. While she can't put real weight on her leg, she had better figure out how to limp. The sooner she can get out of here, the better. For everyone.

* * *

 _The Elf knows he knew his name, but he's lost it again. Tauriel – Tauriel, this name he remembers, but not to whom it belongs. He wanders a nebulous dream-state, neither asleep nor awake, unsure what is real and what is merely the product of his fractured mind._

 _Tauriel._ Tauriel. _She is important, though something in him believes he has harmed her somehow._

 _He must wake. He must find her – perhaps she can make him remember. Someday, he will find a way to keep things in his mind, and perhaps she is key to that._

* * *

Yavanna shakes her head, nearing despair.

Thranduil, Maglor – they both want to _take_ from Tauriel. Maglor most obviously, but Tauriel wishes her to know he loves her for his own sake, not hers. If he cannot have her love, he craves her absolution – but what does he offer in return? Thus far, nothing but words and desperation.

Perhaps Yavanna needs a word with him. Maglor, at the moment, is a lost cause; _him_ she can do nothing with until a little more of his mind returns.

But Thranduil – oh. Oh no.

Thranduil is Fading.

It is frowned upon, in this Age, for any of the Valar to assume physical form in Middle-Earth. There's no actual _law_ against it, but it is nevertheless discouraged. In this case, however, she is sure she can be excused. Legolas has too much to do, but there is no other who can inherit, if his father Fades. Taking up his father's crown will leave him trapped in Mirkwood, unable to take part in what is brewing.

No, she must see Thranduil – and Tauriel. The trouble is that she can give him no hope – and Tauriel will not want to. As things stand, Yavanna doesn't think the girl could force herself to care if he Fades.

* * *

Thranduil sits in the dark, surrounded by empty wine-bottles. If he is Fading, he no longer has any need to hoard his precious alcohol.

He feels…strangely relieved. Still numb, as he has been for months, but it is as if a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. No longer does he face the prospect of living forever like this.

He is Thranduil, and he will be free.

It is said that the Lingerers have no memory of who they once were – that they merely wander, houseless and unseen by most. The thought is inexpressibly comforting.

He drains the last of another bottle, and lets it fall to the floor with a _chink_. While the length of time it takes to Fade differs from Elf to Elf, he does not think it will take him long at all. And that thought too is comforting.

His eyes drift shut, his muscles and limbs loose from the effects of his truly heroic consumption of drink. This is not fair to Legolas, but not even for his son can he halt this process. It is not as though Legolas will truly miss him – he has held the boy at arm's length far too long for that.

"You must stop this, Thranduil."

He jerks upright, his eyes snapping open, for he knows that voice, though until now he has heard it only within his own mind.

Dark though the room is, he can see Yavanna clearly. She stands in a pool of her own radiance, her red-gold hair glowing, the smooth dark skin of her face and bare arms flawless. Her gown is some shifting, shimmering green fabric that catches and sparks with her own light.

"I will not," he says flatly. "I have driven away my son, and the one I love wishes nothing to do with me. What, exactly, have I to live for?"

"Nothing, yet," she retorts, just as flatly, "but you will. Of that I assure you."

He snorts, slumping in his chair again. "Can you re-write history? Can you tell my younger self not to be such a fool? To cherish my son, and to tell Tauriel I love her _before_ I take her to bed with me? To even admit to _myself_ that I loved her then? I have burned every bridge I had, Lady Yavanna, and even I am not fool enough to truly believe they can be rebuilt. I hope, and I wish, and I delude myself so that I might function, but in my heart I know the truth. I have made my bed, but I cannot endure lying in it."

Her eyebrows rise. "Are you truly so weak?"

"Yes," he says bluntly. "Yes, I am. And I no longer care."

Yavanna sighs, and shakes her head. "Stop it, Thranduil, or I will stop it for you. And you will not like it, if I do."

"Lady Yavanna, you know as well as I that the process of Fading cannot be halted," he says. He's always thought that rather tragic, but he's grateful for it now.

"It could, if you tried," she says, grabbing his arm. She hauls him to his unsteady feet with a strength that is rather terrifying – Thranduil is far from a weakling, but she could break him in half. His head spins, and he would fall if not for her grip. "You do not need me to tell you that you have been an idiot, Thranduil Oropherion," she adds severely, "but you need not compound your idiocy by Fading. Your life will not always be a tale of bode and woe, but you will never find out why or how if you do not stop this nonsense. It has only just begun – you can halt it, if you try hard enough. And you had best try as hard as you can, or I will send my husband to shadow you until you succeed."

 _That_ thought is legitimately terrifying.

* * *

Tauriel actually crashes to the floor when Yavanna appears in her room without any manner of warning. The poppy has worn off enough that pain jags up her leg and all through her, so intense she has to grit her teeth against a cry.

The Vala picks her up as though she weighs no more than a child, carefully setting her on the bed. "I apologize, little Tauriel,' she says. "I did not mean to startle you so."

Now that Tauriel is truly in her presence, she can find neither voice nor words. In the dream-world, she had not sensed the sheer magnitude of Yavanna's power, but she is very, very aware of it now. All she can do is nod, inanely.

"I bring news that may not seem so ill to you, but it may well be very ill for Middle-Earth." Yavanna takes Tauriel's hands, her fingers warm and satin-smooth. "Thranduil is Fading, little one."

For a moment, Tauriel is convinced she hasn't heard that right. The thought of one as proud and arrogant as Thranduil, Fading…she cannot wrap her mind around it.

But Yavanna would not lie to her about such a thing, nor is she likely to be mistaken. Tauriel can easily guess why, too – and a small, shameful, _terrible_ part of her, a part she thought she had extinguished, thinks that it serves him right.

It truly _is_ terrible, and she truly is ashamed, for she should never wish Fading on anyone. Most of her doesn't wish it even on Thranduil, but a tiny part of her can't help it.

"I do not know what you think I can do about it," she says, forcing herself to meet Yavanna's eyes. "I cannot make myself forgive him, and I am a terrible liar. There is no hope I can give him – not even false hope."

The Vala gives her hands a gentle squeeze. "Stay," she says. "Do not flee as soon as you are able. I know I ask much of you in this, but Thranduil cannot be allowed to Fade. In what is to come, he will be needed."

 _That_ sounds ominous, but Tauriel knows Yavanna will not elaborate. She sighs, bowing her head. "I will stay, my lady," she says, "but I do not know that I can face him again. I pity him, but I can't forgive him – and even now, after all I have healed, I still do not _want_ to." She's a little ashamed of that, too, but she can't help it.

"You fear that if you do, he will hurt you again," Yavanna says gently.

Tauriel looks up at her. "I know he would," she says simply. "It is all he knows how to do. He lies, to himself and to others. Perhaps once he was a good person, but he is not one now. I do not know how much good my presence will do, my lady. He will never cease this mad delusion while I am here."

Now it is Yavanna who sighs, and sits in the chair facing her. "It is not a delusion, little Tauriel," she says, more gently still. "Thranduil truly does love you, though his love is as damaged as he is. It alters nothing that has gone before, but you must know that his love is no lie, to you or to himself."

It's not what Tauriel needs to hear, and she tries to turn away. "If that is how he treats those he loves," she says, "I would not want to be his enemy. If his love is real, that only makes it worse." And it really does. To use her and discard her is terrible enough in its own right, but to love her, and use her anyway…she shudders, disgust roiling in her stomach. "I can never be what he wants, my lady," she says, extricating her hands and curling in on herself. "If he cannot accept that, he must Fade. Even if I was willing to lie to him, he would know it for what it was."

Yavanna lays a gentle hand on her hair, and the touch suffuses her with comforting warmth. "Talk to him, little Tauriel," she says. "You need not lie, or pretend to grant him absolution you do not have it in you to give. Merely listening to what he has to say may halt his Fading."

She doesn't want to give him even that much, but she can hardly disobey _Yavanna_. When a Vala asks you to do something, you can't exactly say no. "All right, my lady," she says, shutting her eyes in silent pain. "I will try." She will even try to keep her temper, should he somehow stir her ire again. "But I can do no more than that. I cannot offer forgiveness I do not feel."

"I know," Yavanna says, carding her fingers through Tauriel's hair, "and I would not ask you to. He will come to you soon, so make ready." She kisses the crown of Tauriel's head, and then she is gone.

Tauriel stares at her hands. She can't disobey Yavanna, but oh, she _wants_ to. She wants to scream, to smash everything in the room, because how dare Thranduil love her, yet treat her as he has? _How dare he?_ How can he love her, yet let her suffer alone for twenty years? She spoke truth when she told him it would have gone on until she could bear it no more, and left.

That is not love – certainly not love as _she_ has ever understood it. Yavanna would not lie to her, but still. Her mind rebels at the very idea.

She hugs her midsection, trying to ignore the low, dull pain in her heart. It really is so, so very much worse. She's known for decades that Thranduil is fundamentally selfish, but strangely, it was _easier_ when she thought she meant nothing to him. She spent so long thinking he was a hateful user and nothing more, but to know that he has loved her, and let her suffer anyway…it hurts so much that she can't even sustain rage.

Tauriel wants to run – to crawl, if she has to, and never face anyone again, Edain, Elf, or Dwarf. She feels she will go as mad as her so-called father if she stays.

But she can't run, or crawl, so she curls up on the bed and tries to fight the burn in her eyes. She swore she'd never let him make her cry again, but it's a battle she's losing by the moment. Eventually she has no choice but to give in, pressing her face into her lavender-scented pillow to muffle her sobs. Her tears are hot and bitter and physically painful, her chest burning as much as her eyes.

Naturally, this is how Thranduil finds her.

She doesn't hear the door open, and so isn't aware of his presence right away. Not until a tentative hand rests on her shoulder does she realize she's not alone.

She swats it away on instinct before she even knows who it belongs to, but when she turns and sees that it's _him_ , she recoils so much she almost falls off the other side of the bed.

"Don't _touch_ me," she hisses, though the venom in her voice is undercut by the hoarseness of her tears. "Yavanna said I have to listen, but don't you dare _ever_ touch me again."

His white face is entirely stricken, but she's too raw to care. Yavanna spoke truth – he _is_ Fading, and right now she hurts so much she _wants_ him to. It can't be any worse than what she felt for twenty years.

"I should go," he says softly – so very softly, soft and _broken._

 _Yes, you should_ , she thinks, but what she says is, "No. Yavanna told me I must listen, so speak. Let's get this over with."

* * *

These two…it's a good thing Tauriel has a very strong sense of duty. It's probably the only thing that's going to get her through the first – and worst – of this.


	13. Conversation

This is a fairly short chapter, but I figured it stood best on its own, since it's the start of a turning-point.

* * *

Thranduil swallows, and Tauriel forces herself to sit still, for all she wants to run. She wraps the green blanket around her shoulders, inhaling lavender, but she can't quite bring herself to look at him. She doesn't know what she'll do or say if she does, and it's probably best not to find out.

"I do love you, Tauriel," he says at last. "Whether or not you believe it."

"So Yavanna told me," she says, wincing as she shifts her leg. Somehow, she doesn't add all the recrimination that stews in her mind, even though she has to wipe her traitorous eyes on the edge of the blanket. In nothing but her hospital shift, she feels vulnerable – if they must have this conversation, she wishes she could at least wear her own clothes.

"Do – do you believe her?" he asks, and there is actually a trace of hesitance in his voice.

"She has no reason to lie to me," Tauriel says tonelessly, "but Thranduil, that changes nothing. I do not have it in my to forgive you." _Even if I wanted to_. She has no personal reason _to_ want to, and she is not altruistic enough to be able to give it solely for his sake. She's given him too much of herself already.

He doesn't answer right away, and she hazards a look at him out of the corner of her eye. He sits with his head in his hands, looking so defeated it's just _wrong_. Part of her pities him, but another part, the lingering scar of the emotional wound he dealt her, is furious. What right has he to feel such pain?

But she grits her teeth, keeping it to herself, and turns away. Perhaps, if she doesn't look at him, her ire will fade. Eru knows she's too tired to sustain it for long anyway.

"I know you will never forgive me," he says at last, his voice so deep and so _broken_. "I know that you will not, and I know I deserve every ounce of your contempt. There is no hope for me, which is why I Fade. Yet Yavanna does not wish to give me even that."

He pauses. "How did you not Fade, Tauriel, after all I put you through?"

She shuts her eyes, wiping them again on the damp edge of her blanket. He's not going to like this, but she won't lie. "My hatred sustained me," she says quietly, her voice surprisingly hoarse. "I thought you would be happy if I was gone, and I was determined to give you whatever misery I could. I would not let you dismiss me, and what you had done to me, so easily. Though at the time, I was certain you didn't care."

The small, wounded sound he makes doesn't surprise her, but it twists at her heart, for she knows all too well what he's feeling. But _she_ had to face it alone, with none to confide in. It is unfair that he need not suffer in silence, too.

Perhaps she can't vent her ire at him, but there _is_ something she can say – something she must say, for all it will run counter to Yavanna's objective. She's sat on it for far too long already. "I did love you," she says, curling into a ball. "I would not have given myself to you otherwise, and I need to know, Thranduil: did you know that, and use it against me?"

He sucks in a sharp, startled breath. "I – I knew you had some manner of fondness for me," he says, his voice unsteady. "I did not know that you loved me." It sounds very much like her revelation has broken him yet further, and she winces; Yavanna will not be pleased with her. "I know you do not believe me, Tauriel, but it was never my intent to use you. Had I merely wanted to use someone, I would not have chosen you."

Strangely, she _does_ believe that now, and it somehow manages to give her relief and pain in equal measure.

"I spent so long thinking I meant nothing to you," she says softly, hating how her voice breaks. "Almost I wish that I did. How – how could –" She can't finish the sentence; her tears have taken over again, hot and bitter, salty where they touch her lips.

It seems he knows what she means to ask, for he says, "Because I am a monster. There is no excuse I can give you, Tauriel. I am a broken, selfish monster who loves without knowing how. Who has feared to love to so long that it is poison to all it touches."

A better person than Tauriel would try to comfort him, but she can't lie. Her chest aches with the effort of suppressing further tears that do not wish to be suppressed, her hair damp with them where it touches her face.

"I do not know what Yavanna expects me to do about… _this_ ," she says, when she finally trusts herself to speak. "I cannot give you what you want, Thranduil. I never will. You hurt me too much, for too long. If you need a reason not to Fade, let it be Legolas. It can never be me. I will not give you false hope."

"Tauriel," Thranduil says, and he sounds so small, so _lost_ , so very unlike _him_ , "is there no way we could start over?"

She shuts her eyes, too weary to summon rage. "No," she says. "No, there is not. You can't undo the past, Thranduil, nor can you erase the last two decades of my life. That I feel the pain no longer does not take away the fact that it ate at my fëa for twenty years. Even if I ever managed to forgive you, I will never trust you again. I can't." And it's very, very true. Perhaps Yavanna could influence her to forgiveness, but nothing would ever induce her to trust Thranduil again.

It's brutal, but it's the truth. Yavanna might not like it, but Tauriel can't change it. Offering him false hope would only be cruel in the end. "Find someone else, Thranduil," she says, not unkindly. "Find someone, and do not repeat your mistakes. If you can love me, you can love another."

He draws a shuddering breath. "No," he says softly, "I cannot. After Anameleth, there was no one – no one until you. And there will never be another."

Tauriel forces herself to roll over and look at him, her eyes still blurred with tears He still sits with his head bowed, the curtain of his silvery hair obscuring his face. "Thranduil – I can't _help_ you, Thranduil. Someone needs to, but it can't be me. Perhaps I am not so broken as you, but I am far from whole." She shuts her eyes a moment. Everything in her rebels about laying any part of her heart bare to him, but he needs to know, and she might never truly move on until she's told him.

"You have no idea how much you hurt me," she sighs, hugging the blanket tighter around herself. "No idea. I actually felt my heart break that morning, and oh, how I cried that night. You made me feel so used, so _worthless_ , and I cried myself to sleep for a full week. Never in all my life have I felt so degraded, before or since. How can you say you love me, yet leave me like that for so long?"

He's quiet for so long that she opens her eyes. "There is no single answer I can give you, Tauriel," he says at last. "I was guilty and ashamed and afraid. I do not – I do not deal with emotion, as I'm sure you know by now. As soon as I start to feel something, I freeze. As I said, I am a selfish monster. I want to say that I feared speaking to you would only make it worse, but in truth, I feared to truly confront you at all. For what I did, there is not defense, and I will not insult you by attempting to make any. I was a coward, until it was too late."

She wipes her eyes again. "It was too late after the first two days," she says. "You hurt me and I hated you. I know that nothing you could have said or done would have changed that, and yet I wish you had tried. I wish you have given me _something_ , after all I gave you." She swallows hard. "Did – did it even mean anything to you?"

Only now does he look up at her, his pale eyes bright with heartbreak. "I hate that you have to ask that," he says softly. "It meant everything to me, Tauriel. It meant so much that I was terrified, for nothing had stirred me so since Anameleth died. I knew I did not deserve it, but in denying myself, I nearly destroyed you. And I have regretted it every day since then, though I never had the courage to say so.

"You are young and strong, Tauriel, and I am old and so very weak, in ways none can see. Everything I touch, I poison."

She ought to say something to that, but she has no idea _what_. Words are simply not to be found. Though he's said it before, for the first time, she truly believes it – believes that he is not merely deluding himself.

"I can't grant you absolution, Thranduil," she says at last. "It's not in my power. But no longer do I hate you, nor do I wish you ill." _That_ is partially a lie, but she's trying to make it the truth. She's sure that she will, in time.

"Let me try, Tauriel," he says, his hands twitching, as though he wants to touch her. "To find a way for us to start over – let me try."

There _is_ no way, but if he needs that particular delusion – if it will keep him from Fading – she can let him have it. "If you make me angry and I hit you, you will have none but yourself to blame," she warns.

For the first time, the fleeting ghost of a bitter smile crosses his face. "I have none but myself to blame for anything you my do to me," he says. "I am willing to take the risk."

She has little doubt that she _will_ hit him, at some point. At least he knows to expect it, and he has something to keep him from Fading. Yes, it's a delusion, but she recognizes that he needs it.

He can have it, for now.

* * *

Thranduil, you've got along-ass way to go, buddy, but you can do it. Eventually. Like, way eventually.


	14. Better Plans

In which Tauriel and Maglor have a conversation, she gets some time with her friends, and Thranduil might have a way to make Tauriel a little less actively hostile to him.

* * *

Having nothing better to do, Tauriel sleeps again, and wakes completely nonplussed.

 _What_ had she just agreed to? She's going to be stuck inside, dealing with someone she very much wants to hit when face-to-face with. Eru knows long it will be before she can even walk. She would be going stir-crazing even without the added complication of Thranduil. Never has she been one to sit still, and now she had no choice.

She longs to feel the sun on her face, the wind in her hair. Perhaps this whole mess would be easier to bear, if she could but have a sight of the sky.

The guard would take her out, if she asks. True, she can do nothing but sit, but it will still be far better than being stuck in here. She is beginning to feel like she's suffocating. Her injury, her inactivity, Thranduil, _Maglor_ – it's all too much. And Maglor doesn't even have the grace to wake and speak with her – assuming he wakes with anything like sanity still in his mind.

She sighs, sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. If nothing else, she wants her clothes back; she really _does_ feel vulnerable in her hospital shift. With her wound, she might not be able to wear her trousers, but at least she wants her tunic.

Tauriel is wondering how to get to the door when it opens, admitting a very pale Sadronniel.

"Maglor is awake," she says. "He wishes to speak with you."

"He remembers who I am?" Tauriel asks, uncertain if she thinks that a good thing, or an ill one.

"Yes," Sadronniel says grimly, "but no longer who _he_ is. He keeps asking for you, over and over, and will say little else."

Tauriel frowns. If he doesn't know who he is, he can answer none of her questions. Still, seeing him would get her out of this room. "Very well," she says. "I will need your help to get there, though."

Sadronniel went to fetch a litter – and Eru, wasn't it embarrassing to need one – leaving Tauriel to stare at her bare feet.

 _How_ has this become her life? Is there anyone – anyone at all – who wants to give her for her own sake? Thranduil wants absolution, Eru knows _what_ Maglor wants with her, but she knows already it is for his sake, not hers.

Sadronniel. Sadronniel and the other guards – they care. And they might well be the only ones who can see her through this, if she can bring herself to face them. Even how she's ashamed, for all Sadronniel assures her she has no reason to ne. It's been her shameful secret for so long that moving past thought emotion will not be easy.

She doesn't know what to do about Thranduil, so she shoves the thought aside. The fact that she must deal with him to keep him from Fading, regardless of the cost to herself – it makes her blood boil. What has she done, to make Eru hate her so? What grave sin has she committed, all unknowing?

But then, perhaps _she_ did nothing. All Elves know that the line of Fëanor was cursed, and she's had the misfortune of being born his granddaughter. That in itself might be enough, however unfair it is.

And it is unfair. She is no Kinslayer; she could not have actually shot Thranduil, no matter how much she wanted to. The worst mistake she's ever made was letting Thranduil talk her into his bed, and that harmed none but herself. Whatever pain it caused _him_ is his own damn fault. All she's ever done in her life is try to be the best guard that she can, and this is how life repays her.

By the time Sadronniel returns with Faelon and a litter, Tauriel is deeply depressed. She feels she has a right to be, too; her father is Maglor, her former king broke her heart and now has the gall to think he can fix it, and she's lost the only person she will ever truly love. Really, if she _wasn't_ depressed, something would be extremely wrong with her.

The real question is how to lift herself out of it.

"After this…conversation," she says, "I want to go to the guardroom. Something tells me I am going to need to get very, very drunk."

Sadronniel gives her a smile. "Yes, Captain."

Tauriel doesn't bother correcting her as she struggles onto the litter. In a way, it's nice that they still _think_ of her as their captain. For so much of her life, being a guard defined her identity.

They bear her out through the healing wards, and when they are alone in the corridor, Sadronniel says quietly, "We have been plotting to get you to Beorn, as soon as you can put weight on your leg."

It's tempting. Oh, it is tempting. "I can't," Tauriel sighs. "I promised Yavanna I would stay. It is a long story, and I do not yet have the energy to tell it," she adds, forestalling their questions. "Suffice it to say, I cannot leave yet."

" _Yavanna?_ " Faelon asks, turning his head to look at her.

"As I said, it is a long story, and it has much to do with Maglor." She doesn't want them knowing of the mess with Thranduil – not yet. She simply can't speak of it. She can hardly stand to _think_ of it.

The rest of the trip is quiet until they reach the dungeon, and set down the litter outside one of the small cells. "We will not be far," Sadronniel says. "Yell if you need us."

Finding a comfortable way to sit proves impossible, so eventually she gives up. Maglor, she finds, is sitting too – on the floor, very near the bars.

He looks terrible. His hair cannot have seen a brush in days, and the hollowness of his cheeks suggests he has been refusing food even while awake. The stump where his hand had been is well-bandaged, but Tauriel winces at the sight anyway. She cannot precisely _blame_ Thranduil – she would have been tempted to do the same, if she could have – but she winces nonetheless. His other hand, the one burned by the Silmaril, still does not look overly dexterous.

"You are Tauriel," he says, his voice a gravelly rasp. There is, unsurprisingly, madness in his blue eyes, but there is also a strange sort of desperation.

"Yes," she says, and doesn't know what else to say. She's not sure just yet what he wants from her.

He wraps his hand around one of the bars, and she has a better view of the scar tissue. It looks as though he stuck it directly into a fire and held it there, the skin unnaturally ridged and twisted. "Who am _I_?"

She looks at him carefully. There is no artifice, no lie in his eyes; he is too mad for that. "You are Maglor, son of Fëanor," she says evenly. "You are my sire." She can't bring herself to call him her father, for he is not, and never will be. "You are here because you tried to kill me." Though she's not certain that's strictly true; given how accurately he'd impaled her leg, she suspected that if he wanted her dead, she'd _be_ dead. Given his madness, however, she can't be certain.

His brow furrows. "If you are my daughter," he says, sounding genuinely bewildered, "why did I try to kill you?"

"A question only you can answer," she sighs. "It was the first time I had ever met you. You abandoned my mother."

She's startled by the level of _grief_ in his mad eyes. "I…?" He doesn't seem able to finish the sentence, but she knows what he would ask.

For the first time, she wonders what he was like before – in Valinor, before the Kinslayings. Nothing is _born_ evil – not even Sauron. How could he let himself fall so far?

How could anyone?

His father and all his brothers had profaned themselves and died for three pretty jewels. He'd profaned himself, too, and lost his mind. How could _anything_ , no matter how pretty, drive Eldar to kill one another? She can't imagine any material object being worth that.

But then, from all she knows of history, most of the Elves of the First Age seem to have been slightly mad. It's likely why most of them are dead.

"I do not know," he said, more than a little brokenly. "I do not remember. I do not remember _anything_."

 _You would not want to_. "Perhaps that is for the best," she says. "Find a new self to be. We live forever, after all. _You_ at least can start over." No, she's not bitter about her own situation. Of course not.

But if she can do nothing for herself, perhaps she can give him some manner of aid. He deserves it even less than Thranduil, but he has caused her far less internal pain. And perhaps aiding him will take away some of the irritation she knows her former King will stir in her.

Tauriel can be selfish, too.

* * *

In spite of her wish to go to the guardroom, Tauriel can't help a feeling of hesitation. Perhaps they do not fault her naiveté, but she remains ashamed nonetheless. Getting over that will likely take some time.

Though it helps a little knowing that night was not a lie. She can't help but believe Thranduil, now. To know she had not been taken for a fool makes it easier to bear in one way, but in another, it is harder: he did care, and yet the next morning happened anyway.

She gives herself a mental shake. Now is not the time to dwell on it. She wants to drink herself silly, and hear all that has gone on in her months of absence – every little, insignificant detail.

The room, she finds, is crowded as ever – someone is always either going on shift or coming off of it, so there are rarely less than a score of people, and very often more. While she feels like a complete fool, having to be carried in like an invalid, it's still good to see everyone, to smell the familiar, comforting scent of leather-oil and forest, of smoke, and the very strong aroma of wine, sharp and fruity in equal measure.

Nerves twist in her stomach, but she's welcomed with a cacophony of greetings and many very careful open arms. For all she's been happy in the forest, this gives her an undeniable sense of homecoming.

"How long are you back for, Captain?" Belegorn asked, pouring her a very large flagon of wine.

Tauriel winces as Sadronniel helps her sit at a table. "I don't know," she says. "As long as Maglor lingers here, so must I. Yavanna's orders – and before you ask, I may say little more than that. In truth, I do not know _what_ I am meant to do." And it really was true; it seems, for now, that all she has to do is exist.

"I tried to talk to him," she adds, taking the wine from Belegorn. The burn of the alcohol is beyond welcome. "Just now, his mind is not even half there, but he is coherent. He knew my name, but not his own. Monster though he's been, I find I can't help but pity him. And to be entirely honest, I am actually rather glad he abandoned my mother. I do not want to _imagine_ what my life would have been like, with him as my father."

She isn't the only one who shivers at the thought. They would have been barred from every remaining Elven settlement in Middle-Earth. It would have been a terrible existence.

Silence follows, and she dreads any further questions – anything that might pertain to Thranduil – so she cuts them off before they can start. "What have I missed in my absence? I have seen your handiwork in the forest. You have made my own much easier."

Faelon and Menelwen share a knowing look – they're obviously aware of what she's doing, but mercifully, they let her do it. "There is little to tell, really, beyond what you have seen for yourself. We all miss you, of course."

"Myself included," Sadronniel grumbles, pouring herself some wine. "You made being Captain look rather easier than it actually is. I rather had the job forced upon me."

"It will grow easier, once you are used to it," Tauriel assured her, draining half her goblet at one go. The wine warmed her, sending her head spinning in a way that was quite pleasant, actually. "Someday, when this mess with Maglor is over, you must come to my treehouse. We will have our own Feast of Starlight, under the _actual_ stars. Though I suppose my garden will be dead by then, without me there to water it," she sighs.

"How can you stand living out there, all alone?" Falathiel asks.

"I am not alone," she says. "I have the trees, and the animals." She isn't about to mention Yavanna. Not yet. "Without the spiders, it is very peaceful. I wish I had never made that ill-fated trip to Erebor. I wanted to see Kili's mother, and it earned me an unwanted father and a knife through the though." She sounds so sour that even she has to laugh.

"Well, you have us, until it is over," Faelon says stoutly, as he too raids the wine. "If you still have trouble walking, we will help you to Beorn. Is Huoriel there?"

"When last I saw her, yes. I doubt she would travel far on her own. Either you or I would have found her, if she had come back to the forest." Tauriel hopes she _has_ stayed, as she herself would need to winter with Beorn. The more the merrier, as the Edain say.

After living so long away from wine, it's not long before she is completely, gloriously drunk, all discomfort from her leg forgotten, enveloped in the hazy warmth of alcohol. For now, she's quite at one with the world – and quite sleepy. It isn't long before she nods off, truly pleased in a way she has not been since she left the forest for Erebor.

* * *

Thranduil hesitates to visit Tauriel, but visit he does – or tries to. An extraordinarily disapproving Ríniel informs him she got royally drunk with the guards, who ought to have known better.

Thranduil very nearly laughs. Tauriel will likely be quite unhappy tomorrow, but she deserves a little fun. "I would see her anyway," he says. He has something for her, and it actually might be best if he not be around when she finds it.

"Very well, my lord," Ríniel sighs. "I would not suggest trying to wake her, though."

"I will not," he assures her. "Nor will I be long."

When he reaches Tauriel's room, he finds she is deeply asleep indeed. Thankfully, someone has swept up the ashes of his letters; he doesn't think he could bear _that_ sight again.

He pulls something from his pocket, eying it before setting it on the end-table. One of Thranduil's lesser-known hobbies is wood carving; he uses it as a distraction, when his mind won't cease racing. This little carving is a red-tailed fox, worked from a lump of cedar, as beautifully detailed as his considerable skill would allow. It's curled up, as if in sleep, nose touching the very end of its bushy tail.

He has never told Tauriel, but she reminds him of such foxes – bright, inquisitive, and fearsome if cornered, for all their small size. While she is unlikely to accept many gifts from him, this is a beautiful little thing, made with care, and he thinks she might not reject it. It's small, it's personal, but most importantly, it's very obviously the result of time and effort. It's not a letter, not something she can view as dashed off in a hurry.

Thranduil doesn't dare kiss her brow, much though he'd like to. Just now she sleeps the sleep of the deeply inebriated, sprawled loose-limbed on the bed amid a tangle of her own hair. He does not envy her the headache she will have when she wakes, and thinks it prudent to refrain from visiting for another few days. She will need them to get over the alcoholic consequences of this day.

So he kisses her brow in spirit, if not in truth, and leaves her with her new gift, wondering what he ought to make her next.

* * *

 _Tauriel,_

 _It seems strange, writing to you when you once again dwell in the halls, however temporarily, but I know it is unwise to speak to you yet, so write I must._

 _I gave you the little fox today, and I am planning a mate for it. While you may well scorn my gift, you will not, I think, destroy it; you have too great an appreciate for craftsmanship, no matter the craftsman's identity._

 _I know I have a very, very long way to go, but I hope that I can begin to prove myself with small things. Literally. There is little I might give you that you would not see as me trying to buy your affection – I cannot furnish you with weapons, though I would like to, and you would never have any use for fine clothes. You have never cared for them anyway. Nor would you appreciate any manner of jewelry._

 _But things like the foxes – crafted with love and care, from wood of the forest that is so much more yours than mine – those, perhaps, you can appreciate. You are Silvan at heart, no matter your parentage, and there is not, nor has there ever been, anything lowly about you._

 _Do you know why the Sindar stopped in the Greenwood, Tauriel? You would never believe it now, I know, but we wanted to be_ more like _your kin. We had seen where pride and folly led – in ourselves as well as the Noldor. Someday, if you will allow it, I will tell you the story of King Thingol. He makes me look positively reasonable._

 _The Silvan folk live – and have lived – simply. You largely escaped the Kinslayings and the War of Wrath because you were not blinded by your own superiority. And I would have seen that, were I not blind myself._

 _You have woken me, Tauriel. It is not too late for my kingdom, and I pray that it is not too late for myself. Gi melin, Tauriel. Now you know. Now I must make you believe._

* * *

You might be onto something there, Thranduil. Maybe. Just take it as slowly as you possibly can.


	15. Secrets

In which Tauriel finds out more about Maglor, and Thranduil actually manage to have a civil conversation (even if she's got to be drunk to do it.)

* * *

When Tauriel wakes the next morning, it is to a thumping headache, and a stomach that threatens mutiny.

A glass filled with creamy liquid sits on the nightstand, smelling of cinnamon and vanilla – the Wood-Elves' hangover cure. She sat up, wincing at the pain in her head and in her leg, and sipped it slowly.

It sets to work almost immediately, and she sighs with relief. Yesterday had actually been _enjoyable_ – it was nice to truly know she need not expect judgment form her friends. Staying here might not be so bad, if only she can do _that_ on a regular basis.

Her hair is a nightmare, but when her free hand reached for her brush, she sees there is something on the table that hadn't been there yesterday. She picks it up, turning it over in her fingers while she sips.

It's a little fox, so beautifully carved she can see each strand of its fur. The reddish wood was so sanded and polished that it feels like silk under her fingertips.

Who could have given it to her? No one she knows has this level of woodworking skill. It has to have taken ages, too – even the tiny ears had each strand of hair visible. It must have been started before she even ran into Maglor and his unfortunate aim.

An unpleasant thought niggles in her brain. Surely this can't be Thranduil's doing, can it? How would he, a king, have any knowledge of woodworking? Surely not.

Well. Even if it _was_ him, the little fox is beautiful, and can no more control who had created him than she could control her own sire. It is not to blame, so she decides to let it live on her nightstand.

By the time she's finished with her drink, she feels much better – and is immediately bored. Sooner or later, she really needs to learn how to sit still. Eru knows she's going to have to do it for a while yet.

Will anyone be willing to take her outside? Obviously she can't walk around, but a sight of the sky would help her immensely. While she can hardly say she's _happy_ right now, being around her friends has helped, too. Sooner or later Thranduil will visit her again, and she would like to be as sanguine as possible before then. If she's meant to keep him from Fading, shouting at him will not help. At all.

* * *

Tauriel gets her time outdoors, since there is no shortage of people willing to take her on their off-hours. No, she can't walk, but she can bask in the dappling sunlight, can breathe the fresh air. It's not at all musty in the caves, but she's grown so accustomed to feeling the breeze that she almost feels she can't breathe without it.

Her inner tension eases as she lies on the grass with her hands laced behind her head. She can do this. She can deal with Maglor, and Thranduil, and when it's all over, she'll go home. This is something that must be endured, but it's finite – even if she doesn't yet know when it will end.

This she tells herself, over and over, while she watches the leaves flutter above her. She is Tauriel, and while she isn't free at the moment, she will be. She is Tauriel, and she is strong.

Menelwen, who won't be on-shift until nightfall, sits beside her. They've said very little, content to merely share one another's company. Tauriel hasn't let herself be truly relaxed around someone like this since before the mess with Thranduil – who, mercifully, no one has asked her about.

"Has Maglor said anything?" Menelwen asks, plaiting three long grass-stems.

"Nothing that makes sense," Tauriel sighs. "His mind, I think, is truly broken. Eru knows how long it has been that way."

"He raised Lord Elrond, you know," Menelwen says.

No, Tauriel _didn't_ know. "He _did_?" She has a very hard time fathoming Maglor being capable of raising anyone, let alone the Lord of Imladris.

"He did," Menelwen affirms. "After, of course, he and Maedhros slew most of Sirion, and Elwing chose to dive off a cliff with the Silmaril rather than protect her sons."

 _That_ Tauriel did know. She's always wondered how anyone could choose a jewel over their own children. Given the actions of Fëanor's children before then, Elwing had to have been certain the twins would be slaughtered without her, yet she had jumped anyway. "Poor Lord Elrond." It is well-known that his brother had chosen mortality, too. The thought rather puts her own troubles into somewhat harsh perspective. At least she wasn't raised by the orcs who wiped out her village. With a foster-parent like Maglor, she wonders how he didn't turn out like, well, _Thranduil_.

She wonders when Thranduil himself will visit her again. It will likely be soon, and she hopes he gives her a little warning, so she can mentally prepare herself. If she's not prepared, she might say something Yavanna would regret.

* * *

Tauriel spends the next four days outside, and starts a collection of things to brighten up her room – bunches of flowers hung up to dry off ceiling, pretty stones from the river, and an empty bird's nest in which she puts her little fox. If she is to be stuck in this room, she might as well make it _hers_.

The healers' shifts also become a thing of the past. While the healers won't let her wear her leggings, she feels much more herself in her tunics, and discovers that some of her irritation really had come from feeling so vulnerable without them. It makes her medical captivity easier to bear.

Unfortunately, on the fifth day, Ríniel tells her Thranduil will bring her dinner tonight.

At least Tauriel has some warning, even if it's not much. She runs through several of the deep breathing exercises the healers taught her to shut out pain, hoping they will ward off her irritation. It doesn't really work.

 _I can do this_ , she tells herself. _For Yavanna, I can do this_. Yavanna saved her; without the Vala's silent, invisible aid, Tauriel would surely have Faded. She can never truly repay what she owes Yavanna, but she can do this. Yes, even now aiding Thranduil irks her, but if she looks at it as aiding Yavanna, it's easier to bear.

She spends the morning outside again, soaking up the sun, and has Faelon sneak her a flask of wine. While she can't afford to get drunk before her meeting with Thranduil, a sip or three will take the edge off. At the very least, it will keep her from throwing something at him.

When she returns to her room in the evening, she has four sips, and is feeling quite warm and rosy by the time Thranduil comes in, bearing a tray with stew and a jug of water. He's dressed surprisingly plainly, his black tunic without pattern or ornamentation, his head bare.

"The healers would not allow me to bring you wine," he says. The tray has legs, so that she can eat without the bother of trying to get up. Thranduil himself has only a round of fresh-baked bread, and she wonders if he always eats so sparely now.

She holds up he flask. "Fortunately, I have my own resources," she says, a little dryly. "The healers must know that I drink while out with my friends, but thus far they have said nothing of it. I think they know they cannot stop me."

He actually smiles a little as he sits in the chair beside her bed, and Tauriel has a (thankfully transient) urge to hit him. She's dismayed by it, dismayed that even now, she thinks he does not deserve to smile. She takes a fifth sip of the flask before picking up her spoon. Alcohol. Alcohol will get her through this.

"Have the healers told you yet when you may begin testing your leg?" Thranduil asks, picking at his bread.

"No," she sighs. "I do not know if they delay out of sheer malice, or if they truly believe I should not try it yet. I've never had such a wound, so I have no way of judging it myself."

"They would not keep you off of it if they did not feel there was a need," he says. "Living in the forest, even with the spiders gone, you cannot afford a limp."

When she takes a bite of the stew, she finds it delicious – venison and onion. "As if it would not heal, in time," she says, a little irritably.

"Not all wounds fully heal," Thranduil says quietly, not looking at her. His tone is extremely strange, and she can't help but wonder why.

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"I will not show you while you are eating," he says. "You would be ill."

Tauriel has no idea what he could be talking about. She has, after all, seen him without any clothes on; his robes conceal no grotesque injury. "I do not understand."

"You will," he says. "You will understand a very great deal."

She has no idea what to say to that, so she says nothing. The ensuing silence would likely be a great deal more awkward without the wine, and even as it is, she keeps sipping while she eats. Only when her head begins to spin does she stop, and switch to the water.

Thranduil is still picking at his bread when she's finished, and she wonders how in Eru's name he's still alive, if he always eats like this. His face _does_ look a little on the thin side, she notices.

"All right," she says, setting down her spoon. "Show me." Tauriel can't help but feel a little insulted that he would think _any_ manner of wound would sicken her. Eru knows she's seen more than enough of them, even long before the battle.

She doesn't think she's ever seen Thranduil look truly _nervous_ before, but he does now. He shuts his eyes, and Tauriel finds herself holding her breath.

The smooth flesh on the entire left side of his face melts away, exposing the raw, red muscle and even bone in places. When he opens his eyes, the left is a blind-milky-white, and she thinks of this whispered tales of Gorthir, and how many were lost in the battle that killed him.

That was so very long ago – how can this burn not have healed, even a little?

She doesn't realize she's asked the question aloud until he says, "No one knows. Galadriel suspects that even Gorthir's fire was cursed." The wound vanishes, replaced by what she now knows to be an illusion. "It, and by association, me. It is not wonder I poison all that I touch. I did not lie when I told you I was broken, Tauriel."

"Does it hurt?" she asks.

He sighs. "Let us just say that there is more than one reason I drink so much. Legolas does not know of it – whenever you see him again, you must not tell him."

"Why not?" she asks, genuinely bewildered. This explains a very great deal about him, and while she can understand why he wouldn't want the kingdom at large to know, Legolas is his _son._

"Because it is a secret," Thranduil says. "My secret."

"You have too many secrets," Tauriel mutters. "I think you would be quite a bit happier if you kept fewer. Legolas certainly would have been. He will come back eventually, and you _need_ to talk to him. He feels he does not even know you."

"He doesn't," Thranduil says, not a little bitterly. "He shouldn't."

Tauriel actually rolls her eyes. "Will you _stop_ ," she sighs. "You have endured a great deal in your life, Thranduil, and most of the ills that have befallen you have been beyond your power to control, but you _can_ control your own actions. You have done so with the kingdom, and you can damn well do so with your son. You can, and you _will_ , or I swear to Eru I will slap you senseless."

He looks so shocked that she almost has to laugh. She doubts many have ever dared speak to him like that, and it makes her rather happier than it probably ought to.

"And what of your secrets, Tauriel?" he asks quietly.

She snorts. "I only ever had one, and it is evidently common knowledge _now_. And before you ask, I have no intent _at all_ of telling him about our…mistake…and I'll make certain the guards don't, either."

His flinch at the word 'mistake' is infinitesimal, but she sees it anyway. Why can Yavanna not help him move past it already, as she had with Tauriel? Is he actually beyond help?

Probably.

"Do you truly think that night was a mistake?" Thranduil asks, not looking at her.

Tauriel stares at him, stunned that he would even ask such a stupid question. "Of _course_ I do," she says, appalled. "How can you think it _wasn't_? Look at the last twenty years, Thranduil. Look at _now_. None of this would have happened if not for that… _that_. Are you as mad as Maglor?"

"I do not regret the night," he says, his eyes finding hers. "Only the morning after."

"Well, I regret _all_ of it," she snaps, "and if you do not talk about something else, I'm very afraid I'll hit you with something." She drains the flask, and give it a despairing look. She's not nearly drunk enough.

It's clear by Thranduil's expression that he believes her – wise Elf – but it's just as clear that he wants to press on anyway, so she holds up a hand, forestalling him.

"Thranduil," she says, "there is no point at all in dwelling on it. The past cannot be changed, or undone. All you, me, or anyone else can do is move forward." Why, oh why does she not have more wine? She doesn't actually want to be angry, yet angry she is. "Now either change the subject, or get more wine."

He shuts his eyes, and yes, she feels sorry for him, but that does little to cool her ire. Thranduil has suffered far more than she's ever imagined, but that doesn't mitigate or excuse what he did to her. Pity and fury are not mutually exclusive.

He's silent a moment, for which she is thankful. It gives her time to do a silent breathing exercise. "I will soon have a mate for your little fox," he says, and she's immensely relieved when he rises, picking up her dinner tray. "And when I speak to you next, I will bring more wine."

Tauriel watches Thranduil go, and reflects that, while this was no fun at all, it could have been a great deal worse. So long as he brings wine with him, she can probably endure future conversations.

She wonders about his face, about that burn. She wonders what else it might have done to him, on a deeper level. Mostly, she wonders why he was willing to show it to her.

* * *

Well, it's a start. At least they didn't give Yavanna any excuse to facepalm.


	16. Change Approaches

In which Galadriel draws near, Tauriel and Thranduil are both freaked out (for different reasons), and the Lady herself is incredibly curious.

* * *

The next three weeks pass in this fashion – Thranduil is wise enough to limit the frequency of his visits, because even when he doesn't anger Tauriel, their interactions are so agonizingly _awkward_. There are, after all, only so many neutral topics of conversation.

Maglor, ironically, is far easier to deal with. Though his memory doesn't improve, he is docile, and quite talkative about what he _does_ remember. It often makes little sense, but Tauriel listens anyway, because, angry as she is at him for stabbing her, she's curious, too.

At the end of the third week the healers clear her to walk short distances with the aid of a stick, which she celebrates by limping about in the forest with her friends, soaking up the sunshine. Autumn, unfortunately, is on its way; while the leaves have not yet begun to turn, they'll start any day now.

When she returns to her room that evening, she finds Thranduil waiting for her, which is…strange. Until now, he's always given her warning of his visits, and formless dread curls in her stomach – he wouldn't come unannounced for no reason. Though he doesn't wear his crown, he's otherwise dressed for court, his flowing robes pure silver.

"Should I be worried?" Tauriel asks, limping over to her bed.

"No," he says, carefully sitting on the chair, "but I thought it best to warn you that Lady Galadriel will be arriving in three days to collect Maglor. She wishes to speak with you."

Tauriel's heart lurches. Galadriel, Lady of the Golden Wood – her _second cousin_ – wants to speak with her. With her.

Tauriel thinks she might be sick, her nerves are so shot.

" _Why?_ " she asks helplessly. Yes, technically they're family, but she's a guard, not a noble, the blood in her veins notwithstanding.

Thranduil actually hesitates before he speaks. "Technically, Tauriel, you are a princess," he says carefully – very carefully, for how must know the singular lack of enthusiasm she'll have for _that_ piece of information. "Maedhros abdicated his title, yes, but you are still a direct descendent of the High King of the Noldor in Valinor."

Panic claws at Tauriel's chest, all but squeezing the breath from her lungs. "She doesn't want me to – to _do_ anything with that, does she?" she asks, dropping her walking-stick. It hits the floor with a clatter.

"I do not know what she wants," he says. "She will not try to force you into anything. As much as I dislike her, she is the only Noldo I have ever met with any common sense, which is likely why she is the only one still in Middle-Earth who is both alive and sane. I still cannot fathom how Maglor has survived all this time."

"In that you are not alone," Tauriel says dryly, trying to calm her thundering heart. "Wherever his mind dwells, it is not here." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "I hope Lady Galadriel knows that I am a guard," she adds. "I don't know the first thing about high court manners. I would make an utter fool of myself if I tried." Is she going to have to wear something special? She has no fine clothes, and would feel terribly ill at ease in anything she might borrow.

"She will understand," he promises, and she hopes it's a promise he can keep. Lady Galadriel is fabled for her wisdom, but still.

And she is Tauriel's _cousin_. Second cousin. Still too close for comfort. What in Eru's name will they even talk about? Of Tauriel's life there is little to tell; she has been a guard for most of it, and has never wanted to seek anything grander. Whatever blood might flow in her veins, she is Silvan at heart.

She looks down at her callused, sun-browned hands, her nails square and blunt. They are not a lady's hands, nor will they ever be, even should she want them to – which she doesn't. The idea that Finwë is her great-grandfather – it's dizzying, literally. While she is not scholar, she's well aware of some of the history of the Elves in Middle-Earth, and the thought that she is related to some of the key figures is still almost more than she can comprehend.

"Damn Maglor," she grumbles, half to herself. "I have always wanted family, but this is _not_ what I meant."

Thranduil actually laughs a little, and she shoots him a dirty look.

"I'm sure this is terribly hilarious, but look at it from my perspective," she says sourly. "I have spent my entire life happily being nobody. Finding out I _am_ somebody by dint of bloodline is not precisely comfortable."

"Goheno nin, Tauriel," he says. "You need not fear anything from Lady Galadriel. She will want to know you, but she will not judge you."

Tauriel isn't so sure of that. She has heard tales of the powers of Lady Galadriel's mind, and there is much in her own she does not wish to share. The mess with Thranduil is far from the only thing – she is a guard, a commoner, and has done many silly, stupid things throughout her life that someone more dignified _would_ judge her for.

"This is going to be a disaster," she groans.

* * *

Tauriel spends the next three days wracked with nerves, and quite cross with herself for feeling them. But then, she thinks she can be forgiven; Lady Galadriel is famed and revered throughout Middle-Earth for a reason, and Tauriel, whatever her parentage, is simply Tauriel. She's young and inexperienced and really quite foolish at times

She's rather shorter than most of the guards, but Sadronniel is near enough in size that one of her dresses can be altered to fit without too much fuss. Fortunately, it's a simple garment of deep green cashmere – not something Tauriel will feel uncomfortably alien in, with only minimal embroidery on the neck and sleeves.

She stands now on a stool in Sadronniel's small, warm apartment, trying to hold still. Guards might not have the same level of skill as seamstresses and tailors, but all are competent with needle and thread, for they repair their own clothes. That doesn't mean Tauriel hasn't been stabbed with a few pins, however.

Sadronniel's apartment is so much homier than Tauriel's room in the healing wards. The mantle above the fireplace is crowded with little souvenirs from the forest – pretty stones, and dried flowers – with a wreath of walnuts hanging above it. It's bright with lantern-light, smelling of dried lavender, leather, and a touch of smoke – it's small and humble, yes, but it is a _home_ , well-loved by its occupant.

Tauriel wonders if anyone is in her old rooms. Not that she could bear to return to them, even if they're empty; that phase of her life is over now, and she doesn't need the memories. Her room in the wards might not be a home, but it's sufficient. She's never needed much.

Her leg is beginning to ache from standing, though, and she hopes Sadronniel is nearly done. The actual sewing she can do herself – it will give her something to do – and from the sheer number of glittering pins on the garment, she'll have her work cut out for her.

"Do you think Lady Galadriel will invite you to Lothlórien?" Sadronniel asks, around a mouthful of pins.

"I don't know." The idea is at once appealing and terrifying. She's heard tales of the beauty of the Golden Wood, but as she told Thranduil, her manners are those of a commoner. She could all too easily embarrass herself.

For now, the point is moot anyway; there's still her promise to Yavanna. She can go nowhere until it is fulfilled, so she need not make a decision right away. Eru knows how long she'll have to think.

Not that she minds quite so much anymore. Being mobile, more or less, has helped a great deal, and she's fallen into a routine of sorts. She can't say she enjoys Thranduil's company, but it's been a fortnight since she's wanted to hit him with anything. Her life is, if not pleasant, at least no longer actively _unpleasant_. It's something to be grateful for, she tells herself, as Sadronniel jabs her with another pin. Things could, on the whole, be much worse.

* * *

Tauriel refuses to leave the dress with Sadronniel, despite the latter's protests. Sadronniel has too much to do to work on it, and Tauriel not enough to take her mind off things. She sits in the chair beside her bed, leg propped up on the mattress, and stitches away.

There's something vaguely soothing about sewing, although she'd hang herself rather than become an actual seamstress. Simple stitchwork takes care and precision, but fashioning an entire garment is another matter altogether.

The needle flashes in the lamplight, the thread making a faint swooshing sound as it passes through the material. The stitches will be easy to remove, when she gives the dress back. It will need ironing when she's through, but she doubts she can accomplish that with her bad leg. One of the healers will have to help with that.

 _Does_ she want to go to Lothlórien one day? Lack of fine graces notwithstanding, she thinks she does, provided everything doesn't go disastrously wrong with Lady Galadriel. She can always return to her own forest. It is not as though it is going anywhere.

Unfortunately, the Lady is almost certainly going to hear about certain… _things_ , thanks to Thranduil's idiotic lack of discretion. _That_ is not a conversation Tauriel looks forward to, but it probably can't be avoided. She still doesn't know what he was thinking, because if the halls at large know about… _that_ …then Legolas will find out sooner or later, too, and he probably won't forgive either one of them. As if the relationship between father and son wasn't already shaky enough.

For all _her_ problems with Thranduil, she doesn't wish strife upon him and Legolas. Tauriel lost her mother so very young, and while Thranduil has been a poor example of a father, he does genuinely love his son. If – when – Legolas discovers this mess, it will break whatever remains of Thranduil's heart. _That_ she could not wish on him, or anyone.

Tauriel understands full well why Legolas left. Time abroad will do him good, she's sure, but all that good will be undone whenever he comes home and hears all the gossip. He and Thranduil will be right back where they started.

As much as she doesn't want to, Tauriel thinks she must ask Galadriel's help. She's quite sure Legolas will be furious with her as well – she needs Galadriel's wisdom. For all her annoyance with Thranduil, she can't leave him to what she knows will be a nightmare, but this is something she can't do on her own.

She stitches a knot and bites off the thread, and grabs the spool off her end-table. Forgiveness might not be within her power, but she will do what she can to make certain Thranduil need not suffer any more for his past foolishness than he absolutely has to. While the pain he's endured is of his own devising, he's still had a sufficient amount of it by now. Eight months ago she would have happily destroyed him, but he's been through enough.

She only hopes Yavanna can keep him from doing some other, equally stupid thing. Then again, she can't think of anything more foolish than giving gossip that particular sort of fuel.

* * *

Though Thranduil would die before he admits it to anyone, thought of facing Galadriel unnerves him. She will disapprove, and she will do it in no uncertain terms.

At least she will also take Maglor off his hands, or so he hopes. She might well leave him with the wretch, as some sort of penance. Should she decide to, he can't exactly argue with her. After all, he rather deserves it.

He chooses his clothes with care – the black tunic shot with silver, and the finest of his autumn-rusty velvet robes. He's wise enough not to offer Tauriel anything; her friends will take care of her. Yes, she's a princess by birth, but not at heart. In truly fine clothes, she would feel unbearably awkward, and tomorrow will be awkward enough as it is, at least for everyone who isn't Galadriel. Thranduil doesn't think she's capable of awkwardness.

She will be kind to Tauriel, at least. Of that he's certain. She'll see just how very bewildered the poor elleth is – and possibly take her away. Yes, Tauriel has made a promise to Yavanna, but Galadriel can be dauntingly persuasive.

But then, Tauriel is nothing if not dutiful. She made a promise, and she'll keep it – which is both a blessing and a curse.

She has not been unkind to him. She strives to avoid awkward silences, and the little family of foxes he has carved her lives in the bird's nest on her end table. Indeed, she's been remarkably patient with him, for her, but while there is no malice nor anger in her eyes, neither is there forgiveness. She speaks to him of Maglor, of the doings of her friends, and asks after his days, but she says nothing of the past, so neither does he.

But it is very early days yet. Just now she still has no reason whatsoever to trust him – that will have to come with time, once he's proven to her that she can. The fact that she's willing to be so patient surely has to be a good sign, and at least she no longer seems miserable now that she can walk, after a fashion. And that in turn helps Thranduil sleep, on the rare nights that he chooses to.

He knows he won't tonight, however much he ought to. Much rides upon tomorrow, and he must be prepared for it.

* * *

Tauriel tries to sleep, and fails. She can't calm the nerves fluttering in her gut, and for some reason she can't get her leg comfortable, in spite of the low dose of poppy she took. She stares into the darkness, hands laced behind her head, enveloped by the scent of lavender.

Whatever happens tomorrow, it will change her life, for good or ill. Of that, she's certain. Part of her can't help but be excited by the idea, for all it unsettles her.

Even in the woods, she's still been dwelling in Thranduil's shadow. This – _this_ is truly new, something with no connection at all to her old life. And unlike Maglor, it could be a good thing.

She's bound here by her promise to Yavanna, but that might well be easier to carry out with something of her own to focus on, something that has no ties to anything that's gone before. Always provided she doesn't somehow offend Lady Galadriel, anyway. Tauriel knows perfectly well how to behave herself around other Wood-Elves, but Galadriel is not a Wood-Elf. She's a great Lady among the Noldor, a queen in all but name. In fact, Tauriel wonders _why_ she doesn't claim a royal title. She has a right to one, being Finwë's descendant. Indeed, she might have a better right than Thranduil, who for better or worse is very conscious of his own station.

Although he has seemed far less so of late, at least to Tauriel. He never even wears his crown in her presence, and she wonders why. At least he also seems less broken, less on the cusp of Fading. She's fulfilling her promise – which is good, because if her presence wasn't enough, she doesn't know _what_ she'd do.

Surely Lady Galadriel can help. Surely.

* * *

There is not much in this world that can shock Galadriel anymore, but Thranduil's messenger managed it and then some.

Maglor. Alive, after all these millennia. And with a _daughter_. A daughter who _shot_ him, and who he then _stabbed._

Some things, apparently, really are in the blood.

The last dawn of her journey is cool and crystal-pure, the forest lighter than she has felt it in centuries. No webs mar the trees, and there is no stink of death and rot – just the clean scent of dew-damp earth, of things green and growing. The Wood-Elves have been very busy in not very much time.

She wonders why.

Thranduil has ever been an enigma to her. Embittered by many things – some which he has done, and some which have been done to him. He resents his lack of one of the Three, and she doesn't blame him. Cirdan must have his reasons for gifting the third to Mithrandir, but that will not comfort Thranduil at all.

Losing his wife was a terrible blow to him, yet unlike her son-by-marriage, he froze upon her loss, and would accept aid from no one.. He sat in his halls while his forest perished by inches, yet now he has, for some reason, stirred himself.

Galadriel is rather more curious than she has been in a very long time.

"The battle gave us all some perspective, my lady," one of her guides says, when she remarks upon it. He is a younger ellon, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and clearly – amusingly – awed by her presence. He says no more, though she's quite certain that there is much more to say.

Well. She'll find out soon enough. She will see whatever remains of her poor cousin's mind, and meet his daughter. She only hopes Thranduil has not been too hard on the poor girl.

* * *

Oh, Galadriel, if you only knew. This will be an interesting meeting, even if both Tauriel and Thranduil find it rather uncomfortable. And hey, the pair of them managed to have a conversation that wasn't strained beyond belief – even if it _was_ because they're both too nervous.


	17. Galadriel

What's this? An update, after all this time?

In which Tauriel and Thranduil meet Galadriel, and it's not nearly as horrible as either feared.

* * *

Tauriel rises very early the next morning, and it's all she can do not to get hopelessly drunk before breakfast. Thought of meeting Lady Galadriel remains terrifying, for all the elleth is her kin. All the breathing exercises in the world can't calm her racing pulse, and in spite of the pain in her leg, she finds herself pacing, unable to sit still.

She braids her hair, at least, in the fashion she's always worn it as a guard, and dons Sadronniel's dress – she's done a decent enough job altering it, so that it doesn't look like a hand-me-down. Physically, she knows she'll pass muster, but oh, she fears the Lady's probing mind.

Although probably not as much as Thranduil. She's surprised to find she actually feels somewhat sorry for him; he has so much more to hide from Lady Galadriel than she does, and she has no doubt that he's dreading this, in his own way. In this at least, she can't help but sympathize with him. She doesn't doubt Galadriel will make him very unhappy, and the thought makes her wince. To her mind, he's paid for his wrongs, but hers is not the only mind that might judge him.

By the time she leaves her room, she's paced so much that she has to lean heavily on her stick, her leg aching more than it has in over a week. At least it's something to focus on, she supposes; she ought to be grateful for it.

Thranduil meets her at the entrance to the healing wards, and though he looks completely impassive, she can read the tension in the set of his shoulders. It's the first time she's seen him with his crown since before she left, and she quashes her vague dislike for it with the eminently logical thought that he's a king, of course he'll wear a crown to meet with a visiting dignitary.

Does Galadriel count as a monarch? She doesn't style herself as Queen, merely Lady, but her position is every bit as exalted as Thranduil's. Oh, this is a terrible idea, completely and utterly; Tauriel's hands are sweating so badly that her grip on the stick is somewhat compromised. Facing an army of orcs would be less terrifying. Far less; up until the Battle of the Five Armies, Tauriel had taken joy in warfare, even if she can no longer.

"She will not harm you," Thranduil says. He's courteous, slowing his natural pace so that she need not work too hard to keep up, and she's glad of that, at least. "You need not be nervous."

Tauriel gives him a sidelong glance. "Then why are _you_ nervous?"

A flash of irritation crosses his face, and in spite of everything, she almost laughs. "I do not know what you are talking about," he says loftily.

"I'm sure you don't," she says, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Seeing Thranduil wracked with guilt and grief is so terribly wrong, but seeing him even vaguely off-kilter is rather more entertaining.

Apparently out of deference to her leg, they are to meet Lady Galadriel in the nearest receiving chamber, rather than the grandest, as would befit her station. Tauriel can't help but be relieved, because her leg really does hurt abominably, but she'll be damned if she'll limp any more than she actually has to. It's irrational; Thranduil knows full well how injured she is, and Lady Galadriel will surely spot it in a heartbeat, but even at her lowest, Tauriel has always had her pride. At times, it was _all_ she had.

Thranduil looks at her, her limp, and the way she leans on her stick, but she's silently grateful when he doesn't offer help. His pace slows, but only minutely – not enough to be noticeable to anyone but her. While in some ways he can be unutterably stupid, no one could call him unobservant – and like it or not, in some ways he knows her well. Her pride might exasperate him, but at least he knows to leave her to it, even if it _does_ cost her.

When they reach the door, she pauses, drawing a deep breath. No, she's no great lady, but she can at least compose herself like a civilized person. Perhaps she has no fine manners, but that doesn't mean she needs to embarrass herself.

Thranduil is wise enough not to ask whether or not she is ready. All he does is open the door, and bid her enter with a slight incline of his head.

She's never been in this room before. It's smaller than the traditional receiving room, and more homelike, with a large fireplace and a large round table surrounded by cushioned chairs upholstered in dark green brocade. The air smells of lilac, of all things, mingling with the faint scent of smoke.

Lady Galadriel sits facing the door, and Tauriel almost forgets to breathe.

Thranduil can be terribly intimidating, a fact she knows full well he uses to his advantage, but the Lady of the Golden Wood is more imposing by far. Even seated, Tauriel can see how tall she is, her skin fair and white as a lily, her hair a glimmering mingle of gold and silver. There are points of starlight in her endless blue eyes, and a weight of memory that's very nearly staggering.

And she is Tauriel's _cousin_.

Tauriel remembers to bow, at least, exactly how she was taught by her tutor some five hundred-odd years ago. The stick makes it a trifle awkward, but she hopes she might be forgiven.

Thranduil, unsurprisingly, does not bow, but he does give the Lady another inclination of his head. Her gaze both sharpens and hardens on sight of him, and Tauriel suppresses a wince. This, she thinks, is not going to be pleasant.

But to her relief, those diamond-bright eyes leave Thranduil, turning to her instead. It's not _much_ of a relief, given that being the focus of that stare is downright nerve-wracking, but at least she won't have to deal with Thranduil getting righteously told-off in front of her. Yet, anyway.

"Come closer, child," the Lady says, rising, and somehow, Tauriel manages it, daunted though she is. She feels like the clumsiest, coarsest creature imaginable, and not just because of the stick.

"Yes, I see it," the Lady says, reaching out one white hand to touch Tauriel's fiery hair. Brief though the contact is, Tauriel finds that it soothes her, slowing the hummingbird flutter of her heart. "Your hair is exactly like my aunt's. I always thought it an irony that she had such hair, and not my uncle, for he was the one with the legendary temper."

Tauriel swallows. "I cannot say mine is legendary, but it's fairly well-known among the Guard," she says. "I suppose now I know why." She isn't going to mention all the times she's argued with Thranduil. The less mentioned of their interactions, the safer they both were.

"Some things do run in the family," Lady Galadriel says, not a little dryly. "I have yet to speak to my uncle – is he truly as mad as they say?"

"Unfortunately, I think he is," Tauriel sighs. "I have never known any other mad people, so I cannot say for certain, but his mind often wanders very far afield." Why, she wonders, is the Lady so steadfastly ignoring Thranduil? It's bordering on outright rude – but then, it's better than several of the alternatives could be. She only hopes he's willing to let it stand, and not get righteously indignant over it.

Bizarrely, he doesn't actually seem to mind. Granted, he's always been difficult to read, but if he's annoyed, he never hesitates to let those around him know. He seems content to sit in silence, watching the pair of them with impassive eyes.

It gives her a strange feeling of power, sitting here with this ancient, legendary elleth – this elleth to whom she is so closely related. Tauriel has always been no one, has always been _happy_ to be no one, but only now does she realize that she is, in fact, Thranduil's equal. Technically, she's Thranduil's _superior_ , but that isn't a thought she wants to contemplate right now.

All her life, as her sovereign, he has held so much power over her that it fed the resentment and contempt that festered in her for twenty years – his dismissal of her had stung so badly in part because it was true. Except it is _not_ true, and knowing that, frightening though it is, makes letting go of that resentment much easier now.

Thranduil is not her superior. She need not hold that against him anymore, because it isn't true. Eru knows she doesn't want to _do_ anything with her birthright, but simply knowing it is there is strangely freeing.

She wonders if the Galadriel is reading her mind, for the Lady smiles. There is an almost physical warmth to it, one that relaxes Tauriel. "I am afraid there is little enough for you to inherit," the Lady says.

"I wouldn't know what to do with it if there was," Tauriel says honestly. "I am a guard, my lady. I've never wanted anything finer in life."

"Perhaps not, but there are a few heirlooms you should receive," Galadriel tells her. "And I would like to bring Lord Elrond here, if you are willing. Maglor raised him and his twin, and somehow they came to care about one another. Perhaps his presence will help."

Tauriel hasn't really thought, until now, about the fact that _Lord Elrond_ is technically her foster-brother. How has her life come to this? How has she turned out to be, all unknowing, connected to two of the most powerful Elves still left on this shore? The thought is almost dizzying.

She glances at Thranduil – this is, after all, his kingdom. Whether Lord Elrond comes or not is his decision, no matter what she or Galadriel want.

"Fine, bring him," Thranduil sighs, with a languid wave of one ringed hand. "Bring his entire family, if you must."

Tauriel isn't entirely certain _that_ is such a wise idea. If certain past events make themselves known, he will find himself rather unpopular with his guests, and the thought is disquieting. Their quarrel is _their_ quarrel, and not for outsiders to pass judgment on. She, as the one who was wronged, is the only one who has that right, yet she knows he will hear of it, should others of his own station find out. The thought sits ill with her, for Thranduil, whatever her trouble with him, is still King. He's a king who has been making a concerted effort to better his realm and his people, and she won't have him derided by outsiders – no matter if he _does_ deserve it. Or has deserved it, anyway.

For his realm, he is trying. She still might have little use for him as a person, but she has to respect what he is doing as a king, and Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond ought to as well. He's done more in the last eight months than he had in the previous century.

 _How can you hold him in such respect and such disdain at the same time?_

She jumps a little; the thought is not her own, for it is in the Lady's voice. _It is not hard, my Lady. Yes, he wronged me terribly, but he has done so much for everyone else that I can't help but respect it. I think he truly has learned from his mistakes._

Lady Galadriel's blue eyes seem to suck at her very fëa. _And yet you have not forgiven him._

 _Would you, were you in my place?_ Tauriel asks, trying to keep any ire from the thought. _I am doing what I can, to make his time on this shore easier. No more can anyone ask of me._

One golden brow arches, almost infinitesimally. _Oh, I did not say you should forgive him, child. It does you credit to work with him as well as you do. Just now, I do not think he truly desires your forgiveness, for he does not believe he deserves it. Should he ever decide he wishes it, make certain he earns it._

Tauriel doesn't bother saying that's never going to happen. She has far too much to think about – as does Thranduil, come to that. Perhaps having guests will be an aid to her, for Yavanna's words are ever in her mind. A group of other Elven nobility will be more than enough distraction for anyone, and he likely won't have any time to spare so much as a thought to Fading. She's done what she can, but it's a strain, because they're both so terribly careful to avoid anything like conflict. It doesn't, she knows, come naturally to either of them, and she wonders if it's as wearying to him as it can be to her.

Yes, she thinks, guests would be good. Thought of meeting Lord Elrond and his kin is daunting, but she's also wildly curious, and it would do Thranduil some good to have people around he actually has to worry about offending.

 _My Lady, just…ensure nobody castigates him, please? That is my job, and I have done it enough. The people need him, and he has, finally, done his best to be what he must be to them. His rule should not be broken simply because he made a terrible mistake and I paid for it. I would not have this change in him spoiled simply because he was too stupid to keep it to himself._ Because really, she thinks, _what_ was he thinking? He might not think he needs the respect of his people, but if so, he's wrong. He's going to have to earn and keep it by his future actions, but, strangely, in that at least Tauriel trusts him. When it comes to her personally, she has no faith in him at all, but she actually does trust him as a king. If nothing else has come of this mess, at least it's woken him up, and he's been doing his best. Perhaps it's not perfect, but nothing is, in this world.

 _I will have a word with them_ , the Lady promises. "You may wish to rest," she says aloud, "before we meet with my uncle. I know your leg pains you."

Tauriel's bright enough to recognize a dismissal when she hears one. "I will, my lady," she says, rising.

"Galadriel," the Lady says, with a smile that, small though it is, borders on impish. "You must call me Galadriel. We are cousins, after all."

No, that is not, in fact, ever going to happen. _Ever_. Even the thought is enough to fill Tauriel with a vague sense of panic. "I will try," she says.

Thranduil rises with her, but is cut off by a pointed look from Lady Galadriel. Tauriel winces a little, for she's certain he's not going to like whatever conversation they are about to have. She can only hope he isn't going to get raked up one side and down the other.

* * *

Thranduil watches as Tauriel limps away, meeting up with a guard at the door, before turning his attention to Galadriel. Unsurprisingly, she looks displeased with him, but not as much so as he might have expected.

Incredibly, she shakes her head, her expression perilously close to exasperated. "Only you, Thranduil, would seduce and break the heart of the last of Fëanor's heirs," she says. "I do not know what motivated you, and I do not care to look, for I know already you are thoroughly ashamed of yourself. As you should be," she added, rather more severely. "I promised Tauriel that I would not unduly castigate you, but you should have known better. I know that foresight is not one of your gifts, but the most ignorant of Edain should have seen how poorly your actions would end."

Her words are nothing he hasn't thrown at himself, time and time again, but his mind fixates upon one thing. "Tauriel asked you not to castigate me?" he asks, genuinely bewildered.

A little of the subtle ire leaves Galadriel's eyes. "She feels that doing so is only her right, and that you have paid enough. She is not blind to your efforts in this kingdom, Thranduil, nor does she dismiss them. Tauriel might not be fond of you, but nor does she actively wish you harm."

"I almost wish she would," he says, with only a trace of bitterness. "These last weeks, she has tried, and so very hard. She has not yelled, or berated me – has been nothing but benign in my presence, but I see the strain in her. I do not think she wishes any longer to hit me, but she works so assiduously to be semi-pleasant company that it exhausts her. She does it because it is asked of her, not because she wants to."

Galadriel quirks a golden brow. "This surprises you?" she asks. "Give her time, Thranduil. She does not hate you, and your actions have earned you a measure of her regard, however distant.

"However, you must stop thinking of her as one of your guards. She is heir to the throne of Finwë, Thranduil, however little meaning the title now holds. I know that you do not perceive yourself as holding power over her, but if you continue to regard her as your subject, power you will have, and she will resent it. If you ever want to earn anything from her, you must treat and regard her as your equal. _Truly_ your equal," she adds, forestalling his protest. "I know that is what you believe you do now, but it is not. She is not the same person she was twenty years ago, and neither are you."

"Tell me, my lady," he says, unable to entirely keep the acid out of his tone, "why are you so concerned with the state of my feelings?"

"Because, you foolish King," she says, "this changes much. Even if my uncle never truly regains his mind, he lives, and we know he lives. His daughter is hale and whole, and technically a ruler in her own right. It would not do to have any of us at odds with the others – and I know that you regret what you did," she adds, rather more gently. "I know that you love her, but if you keep thinking of her as Tauriel and nothing more, this state of affairs will never change. She will not go back to the person she once was, Thranduil, any more than you could.

"She may not forgive you, but that does not mean you cannot live with her in peace. You must be willing to truly start over with one another."

Start over. He'd asked Tauriel if they could, and she'd most emphatically said no – but then, this was not what either of them had meant. If he is honest with himself, he has not thought, all this time, of Tauriel as anything but the elleth he's known all her life. Yes, Maglor is her father, but he has tried not to think of that. Perhaps, in doing so, he has done the pair of them a disservice; he still wishes for Tauriel as she had been, before he broke her – he wishes to see the light return to her eyes, though he has known all along that will never happen in the way he might wish.

She is Tauriel, daughter of Maglor. Direct heir of _Finwë_. Perhaps, if he learns who she is now, they might live together equably. He dares not hope for more.

* * *

See, Thranduil, Tauriel _does_ sort of respect you, even if she doesn't particularly like you. Watching how you handle Elrond and his children might or might not help, depending on how you do it. The pair of them will come to be more at ease around one another once their guests arrive, and they have someone to focus on other than each other and poor crazy Maglor.


End file.
